


Home - First Draft

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [8]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, During Canon, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Sex, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, No seriously - brace yourself, Non-Linear Narrative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of sequence questlines, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, So much death, Tension, all aboard the pain train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-08-31 03:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8561482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: Season 3: A Far Harbor AdaptationWhen a trio of companions journey to a place called Far Harbor, everything they think they know about themselves is challenged.





	1. Like Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Theme for chapter 1: [Nothing Else Matters - Metallica (Piano/Cello Cover) - Brooklyn Duo](https://youtu.be/m1cKYWuVOAk/)  
> Colonial rock, or Wasteland strings

JOHN

Sanctuary Hills, MA

February 19th, 2288

A tiny flame burst into existence and John tipped the lighter towards his cigarette. Taking a deep drag on his smoke, he returned the lighter to his pocket. The ashtray on his end table was overfilled and in the company of too many empty chem canisters. He stood at his window and smoked, waiting for the last of the lights to go out in the occupied homes of Sanctuary Hills. Finally, Preston’s lamp was extinguished and the development was dark.

Stamping out his cigarette, John sneaked out of his front door, heading in the direction of the bridge and clambered down the embankment. Following the shoreline along the river front kept John hidden from any late night wanderers that might have caught sight of him. Stealth assisted by a moonless night, he picked around the debris and fallen trees, coming up from the east side, sticking to the shadows of collapsed homes. He finally ducked into a house painted in a faded blue shade.

A single oil lantern on the porch gave enough illumination for John to make out the empty bottles that were carelessly strewn across the floor, allowing him to hop to avoid them. In the oppressive darkness that followed, his wide, dilated pupils adjusted, and he made his way down the hallway and into a room at the end. He was greeted by the unmistakable sound of charging energy as a laser rifle was aimed in his direction. A red wash of light bathed the face of the weapon’s owner. “Just me,” John rasped, softly.

“I’ve taken a unit,” replied Danse, the glow of crimson energy fading as the rifle was placed back on the floor.

“Ah. Should I go?” If Danse had just injected himself with Calmex, they wouldn’t have much time together before the chem took effect.

“S’alright,” Danse slurred, and he could be heard shifting over to one side of his bed. It seemed as if he had been drinking as well, John noticed, shrugging out of his layers, his amplified vision catching sight of a collect of bottles cluttering the end table, the smell of alcohol lingering in the room. The night was cold, and he kept his shirt and pants on, climbing in next to Danse. He ran a hand over Danse’s cheek, taking note of how long his beard was getting. Danse rolled and caught John’s mouth with his. John reciprocated, glad to feel Danse’s warm, full lips on his despite Danse’s tongue tasting like old, stale scotch.

He had briefly cut Danse off from his supply of Calmex, although little had changed. Instead of sleeping, Danse had spent his nights pacing, his shadow moving back and forth for hours behind boarded windows illuminated from inside, while John had watched from the shadows of nearby homes. While John and Nate had hoped that he would take a greater interest in the Commonwealth and step up to become a leader, Danse remained a mess, lost and depressed, drinking and sleeping his days away. He shied away from the others, not revealing his synth background, retreating further and further into misery.

Through no lack of trying, John hadn’t been able to convince Danse to move to Goodneighbor. In the only compromise they could reach, Danse had relocated to Sanctuary indefinitely. Out of concern, John has stayed with him, much to Fahrenheit’s resentment. A steady stream of caps had kept MacCready sliding back and forth between the two settlements, delivering messages and doling out John’s orders. The job of Deputy Mayor seemed to suit him and Mac was smart enough not to question the sudden upgrade to his employment status.

For the last six weeks they had spent more nights near each other, talking and being together, sleeping side by side. Nothing sexual had occurred, and no knew about them, as neither were ready to explain their history to a dozen different people.

“Permit me,” said Danse, breaking their kiss, his voice sounding tired and husky. “Can I touch you?”

Well that sounded dirty. “I guess, yeah? Sure?” John answered guardedly, not quite sure what an inebriated Danse had in mind.

Danse shifted, propping his bulk up on one elbow. Searching in the dark, Danse’s fingers landed lightly on John’s face, and his stomach promptly knotted. With agonizing slowness, those fingertips moved over the fissures and grooves of his features, skin barely brushing skin. John’s breath shook as Danse felt from one side of his face to the other, trailing under his jaw, moving up over his chin and across his lips. His heart pounded as the touch continued up over his nasal cavity and across his brow. Although he had managed to hold his head still under Danse’s gentle prodding, his body writhed and he was left gasping. The feeling of Danse’s fingers softly exploring his face was, to date, the single most erotic moment of John’s life. He wanted to arch up into him, to grind and grab and be grabbed and feel Danse’s full weight on top of him…but he refrained, twining his hands in sheets instead. Danse was like a frightened radstag right now – move too fast and he’d be scared away for life. His touch turning heavy, Danse’s fingertips settled into the groves in John’s face before sliding away.

“Dan?”

No answer. The Calmex must have taken hold.

Sliding fingers through Danse’s hair, John nestled in closer. Driven to frustration, he slept in restless chunks of time, waking every hour or so. As he hovered at the edge of consciousness, night began to transform into grey dawn.

He got up to leave before daybreak, Danse’s mass still slumbering next to him **.** After tugging on his boots, he shrugged into his blue waistcoat, slung the frock over an arm, and took hat in hand. As he wound his way out of the house, he was drawn into reliving Danse’s hand on him and recalled how perfectly their bodies used to fit together in all types of various ways. He felt himself flush, heat building in his stomach to rush both up and down.

Fuck. Now he needed a cigarette. Pausing on the porch, he fumbled to light it one-handed.

“The disgraced synth and the manufactured ghoul. Ain’t that a picture.”

John froze as something constricted in his chest. He twisted around until he caught sight of Valentine under the eaves of Danse’s house, a cigarette burning in his hand. Countless butts scattered the ground at his Oxfords.

“How did you know about him being...one of them?” John wasn’t about to have the word _synth_ be blurted out a second time.

Nick raised a brow. “ _That’s_ the first question you ask?” He took a drag on his smoke. “I was with Nate when he got the order to put a bullet in the big lug’s head.” Another puff. “I wondered how long it would take to catch one of you. Seems like you have a penchant for the boys in orange, friend.”

He granted himself a few puffs on his own smoke. “Just him. It’s always been him.”

The old synth looked genuinely surprised. “That so?”

Taking the cigarette in his pursed lips, John pulled Nick away from the street and into a side yard, away from any early risers. “When did you figure it out?” His breath fogged in front of his face; the only haze before Nick was the smoke of his cigarette. 

“His reaction when you took a hypodermic to the throat way back when.” Nick didn’t look accusatory. Rather, he appeared slightly empathetic, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly, his eyes losing any mischievous harshness. “So that’s what you're into, eh?”

Snuffing the cigarette, he put his hat on and shook out his coat. “I'm an equal opportunist. Dames, fellas, ghouls, high functioning synths” – he gestured back at Danse’s house for that one – “it’s all the same. Well, mostly.”

As they stood in the shadow of Danse’s house, the weight of the secrets John had carried for years grew heavier. He was at a loss to find any way to shake Danse out of his funk and was ready to take any assistance he could get. This was Nick, group dad and one of the people – or, people-ish – he had known the longest of anyone that he remained in contact with. For better or worse John respected him. Nick’s business was helping people, never hurting them, and always tried to put worried loved ones at ease.

The one time he had tried to explain Danse, it had blown up in his face. Now, John found himself spilling his guts. “Things with us…they weren’t tawdry, they weren’t shady. It was the most honest and healthy relationship I’ve ever had. Either of us. We were loved. I was damn grateful to have had him in my life, even through the awful parts. And now, it’s like glass.” Pulling his coat on, John pleaded at the old synth with his eyes. “Nicky, please…I’m goddamned begging you. Don’t ruin this. It’s too fragile. You owe me that much.”

Reaching out to squeeze John’s shoulder, Nick’s smile was as warm as synthetic face could allow. “Keep your pants on, sweetheart. I’m not looking to make trouble for you. Or him, for that matter. He’s working his way through more than just you.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Danse had given his life away for years. Only now was he getting any of it back. Not that he’d know what to do once he had it. Danse would have to build an entirely new identity, one free of Brotherhood influence.  John would have loved to lean on Nate for help on how to get Danse there, but he was off doing whatever it was he did while inside the Institute **.**

“Could use some help on something,” Nick alluded, shaking John from his thoughts. “Seeing how you and the big guy haven’t left for a while, figured it might be good for both of you.”

“Shoot.” Anything had to be better than staying here and watching Danse self-destruct.

 “Got a case at the edge of the Commonwealth, way up in the Northeast. Missing person. A girl. Long walk to get there. One I’d rather not venture alone, not with everyone up in arms these days.”

“You want an escort?”

“Not exactly. From Danse, yes – he’s good at playing the part of the muscle. But you – you’ve got a way of sizing folks up pretty well. Could use a fresh set of eyes. Plus, the father and I go way back and that might just cloud my judgement. You in?”

“Like he’s gonna do what I say, but, yeah, I’ll try.” Convincing Danse to do anything but feel sorry for himself would take some work. And the right combination of chems.

“That’s as much as I can ask for,” Nick said, gratified. “We’ll stick to the north. It’ll get him out of that house and away from any of the action. We’ll head out in a few hours. And change outta that ridiculous getup before we go, alright?” he added. “Try and be a little inconspicuous.”

Rolling his eyes, John griped “What so wrong about being patriotic?”

“You look like a nut.”

“How un-American of you. Fine.”

John left Nick to go back to his house, grab a few more hours of sleep and find a change of clothes. As he walked, he removed his tricorn and wondered how it might look with a different ensemble. Frowning, he realized that he probably wouldn’t be able to pull it off.

“Beware the fog.”

John stopped in his tracks, looking up from his hat. “What?”

“The fog,” Mama Murphy repeated, sitting in her chair on the porch of her house, shaded from the rising sun by the carport roof. “Few return after venturing into the mists. They use it. They take those who serve their purpose, never to be seen again. Fear and hate – the fog feeds them, allows both to grow, consuming everyone it touches. They’ll take you, too. But they won’t want you, only what you represent. You’ll drown. Drown in the energy and the truth. They’ll try and break you. There has to be a sacrifice. I see fire, scarlet and green, with you standing at the center of it. The glory. The division. It’s because of you.”

Her words made his skin crawl and his hair would have stood on end, if he had any. “Why you hangin’ out at the break of dawn?” he admonished her, shaking off the creeps. “You been mixing at my chem station, again? Too much brain fungus will make you paranoid.” John spun his hat in his hands before placing it atop his head. “Hit some Jet, Mama Murphy. You’re gonna wreck yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Dreams and Dispositions
> 
> Note:  
> Originally, I had a bunch of stuff in Season 2 about Danse and his Institute programming to the tune of why his in-game dialogue doesn’t change after Blind Betrayal. If he was built to do one thing - promote Brotherhood ideals by leading as an example - what happens when he can no longer fulfill that role? But thinking of him caught in a never ending loop of regurgitating propaganda as a broken synth was heartbreaking and I had to scrap it. (But hey, if that’s what Bethesda meant by leaving it in, bravo. Mind blown.) Having his programming be that rigid made him growing as a character problematic and locked him into his prejudices, making any current relationship with John impossible. 
> 
> Another note: I have to refer to Hancock as ‘John’. I slide back and forth between timelines and I have to let John McDonough and John Hancock be referred to by the same name. Hope that no one has gotten confused.
> 
> Last note: I’m actually really embarrassed by my earlier work and, I assure you, rewrites are coming. That will be part of my Director’s Cut for Season 9, which will put the entire series in chronological order.


	2. Dreams and Dispositions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 2: [''Beyond The Sea'' by Ghostwriter](https://youtu.be/SwCYTUPkLoY/)  
> Very much an intro to Far Harbor

NICK

Essex County, MA

February 21st, 2288

As they journeyed up the coast, Nick’s revolver swung reassuringly in its holster, within easy reach should any problem arise. Danse had his old laser rifle once more, slung across his back, while John carried two pistols, one pipe and one plasma, on either hip, his knife concealed somewhere on his person.

Despite the bright sun, a fine mist clung on the coastline, diffusing the light. A few radgulls flapped in the surf, picking edible scraps out of the sand. Their shoes left three distinctly different tread marks in the wet sand of the rocky beach.

“Feels kinda like Liberty Isle,” John said, dressed in road leathers that clung to his thin frame. Brahmin-leather boots were strapped up to his knees and the tails of the flag tied around his hips trailed down to brush over the tops of them. A red bandana, hiding the worst of the wasted flesh on his forehead, completed the outfit. “Simple. Lazy.” He shook a few Mentats into his hand and popped them into his mouth, crunching loudly as he ground the tablets to dust with his teeth. “No wonder so many people turn to chems in the quiet places.”

“We’re well away from the rabble plaguing most of the Commonwealth, that’s for sure,” said Nick.

John shrugged and hopped over a skeleton, fishing pole still gripped in the bones of one hand. “I’m a fan of the rabble.”

“Hmph,” Danse grunted, his displeasure poorly disguised. Nick had been aboard the Prydwen several times, accompanying Nate as he had given an update about some mission to a pompous hotshot in a snazzy coat. With his growing hair falling into his face and his beard gone bushy, Danse now resembled that same honcho. Even his bomber jacket, with its faux-shearling lining, echoed the other man’s apparel, though the jeans, dark shirt and boots were clearly Wasteland chic in a previously-owned and beat-up kind of way.

They crossed over wooden planks, functioning as crude bridges over tributaries. The beach narrowed significantly, forcing them to walk single file – Nick in front, John after him and Danse trailing along behind them, unhappy expression in tow. Although Danse accompanied them, it was clear that he would have rather remained at home. John must have done some fast talking to have gotten him out and about. Their trip across the state had been quiet and uncomfortable, particularly after Nick had let slide outside Outpost Zimonja that he knew about the history between the other two men. Danse’s silence had turned absolutely stony, and despite John’s insistence that he hadn’t betrayed him – _'S’not like I went around saying anything. He’s the detective. He detected.' –_ the trip remained painful at best. It was as if Nick had resigned himself to take two pouty kids to Grandma’s.

He was happy to turn his attention to their destination when it appeared around a curve in the rock wall. “Looks like we’ve arrived.”

The Nakano resistance was a quaint little beachfront home with a sturdy looking boat anchored at the end of a short dock, seemingly untouched by the war in the Commonwealth. It would have been a peaceful scene had a man not been shouting into a radio. A woman was trying to calm him as the trio stepped up to the front door. “I’m sure this bodes well,” Nick muttered.

“Let’s get this over with,” grumbled Danse.

“Let me do the talking.” Nick shoved the door open and motioned for the others to follow. “Hope you don’t mind, Kenji,” he called. “We let ourselves in.”

An Asian couple stood in the living room, huddled over a radio. The man threw his angry desperation straight at Nick. “It is about time that you got here. Nick, you need to get to work right away. She could be anywhere! She could be –”

“Whoa now, Kenji. I _am_ working. And I’m gonna need more to go on. Fill me and my partners here in on the details. This is John and Danse,” he introduced, motioning to each of them with a thumb.

The couple finally tore their eyes away from Nick to look over his shoulder. He couldn’t imagine that a skinny ghoul and a mountain of a man sporting an impressive scowl did much to calm their nerves. “Well, I…I supposed the more eyes, the better,” Kenji reluctantly agreed, though his tone said the opposite.

“So what happened to get you all riled?” John asked, poking into drawers like a pest. Looking for more chems, most likely. He was out of arm’s reach, or else Nick might have smacked him.

“It was the radio,” the wife, Rei, explained, twisting her hands nervously. “She had been talking with someone she met. Kasumi, she…she’s nineteen, can handle herself. I think…Well…” She lowered her eyes, hands dropping. “I think she just wanted her own life. I can’t fault her for that.”

“Preach, Sister,” John agreed, stuffing something in a pocket. 

“No,” Kenji staunchly argued, slicing a hand through the air is if cutting down that suggestion. “That’s not like her. She was taken, Nick. I know it. She took one of the boats, without leaving as much as a note!”

“So…your adult daughter took a safe vessel along a sparsely affected coastline.” Danse’s arms were folded tightly across his chest. “I fail to see the emergency.”

Nick shot him a look of scorn. “Never mind Mr. Negativity over there,” he said to the parents. “We’ll find her. Don’t you worry.” Addressing his cohorts, Nick snapped “Both of you – upstairs.”

After collecting the two of them in a small hallway on the second level, he gave Danse a stern look. “Nice people skills. Should have expected as much outta you. And, hey, Sticky Fingers McGee,” he lectured John. “What exactly were you liberating in there?”

John produced a collection of holotapes.

“Why would you take those?” Danse asked, his brows knitting even tighter.

“In my experience, when folks wanna be found, they leave a note. And when they don’t wanna be found, they make you work for it, usually through these.”

“Think that’s her room.” Nick stated, indicating with a thumb. “Don’t quite match the rest of the house.”

They shuffled into what had to be Kasumi’s room, peppered with scattered projects, and even more holotapes strewn about. Picking one off of the floor, Danse held it out and said, “Whatever she was doing, it appears as though she kept thorough records.”

John nodded to one of the bins in the room overflowing with makeshift tech. “That a working holoplayer?”

Picking up a small, portable tape player, Nick allowed himself a smile. “Jackpot.” He tossed it to John, who took the tape from Danse and slid it into the device. The message played.

_“Project log. Dreams. Recording what I can remember when I wake up. I keep having the same one. I'm in a white room. People are talking about me like I'm not there, or maybe they just don't care. And then there's this... I don't know... Jolt. Like a spark of electricity to the back of my head. And then everyone turns to look at me. God... I hope I don't have it again tonight...”_

They remained mute after the tape stopped. It appeared as if the case had finally gotten Danse’s full attention – his brow had a different kind of furrow now, concerned instead of upset. Nick finally broke the silence. “When people go missing, the knee-jerk reaction is to think Institute. This though, this is brand new.”

“Seems like a Railroad job. Think she really is a synth?” John asked, directing the question at Nick before they both glanced at Danse.

“Why are you both looking at me?” Danse said with a tone that could cut glass. “I’ve never experienced that type of dream.”

Nodding to the holoplayer, Nick ordered “Bring that. And not a word.” He led the others back downstairs. “Any ideas on where I should start looking?” he asked the couple.

Kenji started to answer when Rei cut in, putting a hand on her husband’s arm. “She spent so much time in the boathouse. If you couldn’t find anything here, maybe you’d have more luck there?” she recommended.

Kenji gave his wife a bitter look. “Why would you tell them that? She was taken and you want to waste their time –”

“Kenji,” Nick interrupted before the family was split even further. “I’ve got this. Sit back and let us work.”

Rei took Nick’s undamaged hand, squeezing it. “Thank you. I know that you’ll do everything you can to find her and bring her back.”

Nick tugged the brim of his hat down as he gave her a nod. She released him and the threesome started the walk to the boathouse. Behind him, Nick could hear Danse grouse, “I’m beginning to become highly uncomfortable with this case.”

“Dan, you’re always uncomfortable,” John retorted. “Might as well be useful, too.”

In the boathouse, they didn’t find much except for an old safe, which took Nick no time to crack into. The only item of interest inside was another holotape, which he flipped to John. The ghoul slid the tape in. Before he could play it, Danse clapped a hand down over the device, fixing John with a trepid stare. Bringing a hand over his, John gave one squeeze before removing Danse’s hand from the player.

As they listened to the tape, Danse’s expression drew more and more defeated. Kasumi talked about synthetic people, the Institute, of a haven for lost synths in the North and more. _“I mean... I've always felt... off... like I'm not really supposed to be here, but then there are things in my childhood that I can't remember, and I've been having strange dreams... I... I'm going to go. To meet with these synths. I... I have to know the truth about myself.”_ By the time the tape had finished, Danse’s eyes had glazed over.

“Far Harbor?” Nick asked, pushing through the unease that had fallen over all three of them. “Is that where she said she went?”

John nodded, eyes locked on Danse’s. “Yeah,” he said, breathily. “That’s the place.”

“Looks like Kasumi left to be with her people. Least, that was her perception.” Nick tapped his chin with a steel finger. “Sure that’d come as quite the shock to her parents.”

“So, she thinks she’s what – a replacement?” asked John, scratching at his forehead through the bandana as if it itched.

“I’m gonna leave that part out. You stay here and keep an eye on him,” Nick instructed, pointing at Danse, who seemed caught in a horrified trance.

Leaving them behind in the boathouse gave Nick a few moments to gather his thoughts. It seemed as if Kasumi had been working on her own investigation, following the only lead she had. As he pushed the door to the house open, Nick struggled with what he would say.

“Did you find anything yet?” was the aggressive question that greeted him. Nick recalled why they stopped working together – his frayed nerves couldn’t take the man’s anxious nature. Maybe Kenji needed a lesson on manners and a stiff drink before they continued.

“Look like she might have gotten caught up in some bad news. She’s headed up north to a place called Far Harbor.”

“You have to go after her!” Kenji commanded with all the bluster he could manage.

Sighing, Nick held up his hands. “Alright, look here – Kenji, Rei, we’re going to do the best we can. We know where she’s going and she only has a few days’ head start. I can follow her trail.”

“And the others?” Kenji interjected. “What can they do?”

“John can be immensely persuasive – people have a hard time telling him _no_. And Danse may have a… _unique_ perspective on this situation. We’ll find Kasumi. And I don’t make promises, lightly.”

Kenji finally seemed to take a breath. “Alright. You should use my father’s ship. It has a guidance system and can make it all the way to Maine and back again.”

“I’ll take it. Let me get those bozos together and we’ll be on our way.” He shook Rei’s hand as Kenji scurried out to prep the boat.

Back in the boathouse, he found John sitting on ground, scratching the dock cats, his back to Danse, looking unhappy. “Pretty tired of picking up the Railroad’s garbage,” he griped, leaving Nick to wonder what kind of scene had unfolded once he had left the two of them alone together. “Agents drag every homeless stray they find through my streets. We lettin’ them know?”

Nick hummed and lit a cigarette. “Railroad won’t go chasing after a _suspected_ synth, especially one out of their jurisdiction. This one’s on us.”

Danse’s arms were crossed again, shoulders hunched as he paced by the edge of the waterfront. “Don’t make me do this,” he implored, shaking his head while his eyes remained out of focus. “Don’t instruct me to go.”

Having had enough of his attitude, Nick glowered at him. “You wanna go home? Sleep for another six weeks? For six _years_? You gotta get back in the game, sonny.”

“I have a terrible sense of dread. And if being soldier has taught me anything, it’s to trust my gut.”

Nick puffed on his cigarette. “Then you get to stay on the boat. Suck it up, buttercup. You and your gut are going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The Hero of the Hull
> 
> Hey, everybody. While I usually have most of a season written before I start to think about posting, this chapter was a late addition. I realized that I didn't have nearly enough of Nick's perspective, and I couldn't have THAT, so he got two more chapters. Plus, the comedy between these three was super fun to write.


	3. The Hero of the Hull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 3: [Hidden Citizens - Hazy Shade of Winter](https://youtu.be/_6_J4OMz-Dc/)  
> A fitting tune for creepy Far Harbor.

DANSE

The Gulf of Maine

February 23rd, 2288

The world seemed a flat grey. A thick haze met choppy, dull water which dissolved into a fine mist as it hammered against the hull of their boat and peppered Danse across his cheeks. The engine chugged and seemed very loud against the stillness of the sea around them. It was cold and the air was damp.

He had to go with them – boredom and routine were the enemies of discipline, and he was starting to be humiliated by his own complacency. Every instinct screamed at him to remain in the Commonwealth. He forced that feeling into a cage deep down inside of himself. This intuition had to be continual dread over his identity as a synth. It was the only thing that made sense. Danse wasn’t a fearful man and shying away from a mission went against his nature.

“You still seem pissed, and I don’t mean in a fun drunk way.”

John. Danse watched him come out of the helm to stand by the guardrail. The telltale fragrance of Jet lingered on his clothing.

“I’m…preoccupied. I know it must seem as if I’m upset. That isn’t my intent.”

Even though they were together again, somehow they remained divided. John had been trying to calm him in the boathouse when Danse had turned vicious, stating that he would never again have anything to do with synths. The number of times that he had taken his frustrations out on John was now sizable. John had put his life on hold to be present for Danse, and he couldn’t even repay him in kindness.

Coming up behind the ghoul, he put his arms around him, touching his forehead to the back of his neck. “I’m still struggling,” Danse said. It wasn’t an excuse, but he wanted John to know that he was aware of his actions.

“I know,” John answered, not quite forgiving, but at least understanding. He brought his hands up to clutch at Danse’s wrists. “I get that the way I look disgusts you. I can’t help that.”

Danse’s arms tightened in response. True, he lacked a physical attraction to him. Had he met John now, there would be no chance of an intimate relationship. But the memory of him was a much stronger influence; he had known John McDonough far longer than he had known Hancock. “I won’t lie and say that this is easy for me. Without you, I ceased to exist as an individual. I became my Brotherhood requirements and nothing more.”

“Saw how well that turned out.”

Speaking about his former faction still made Danse uneasy and, rather than answer, he put his head in the curve of John’s neckline, between his head and shoulder. John angled his head to touch Danse’s.

They sailed past the remains of shipwrecks, emerging from the ocean like the bones of gigantic nautical creatures. Land was spotted with greater frequency now and a large mass swelled in the distance. The boat switched gears and Danse felt a jolt underfoot as the boat began to slow. As they drew nearer, he could make out houses that clung precariously to cliff walls, as well as a soupy fog that hugged the island. The sharp smells of brine, dead fish, moldy wood and algae met his nose. Somewhere in the midst of the harbor community, a bell tolled its slivery notes across the dusk sky. Blue lights dotted the edges of the town, spinning out a haze to eerily swirl from lampposts. A few bright yellow lanterns hung from pillars. The rest of the island was caked in darkness.

His eyes darted to one side – Nick was still in the cockpit, smoking while he watched the island loom up before them. “Well, this place looks like it’s fallen out of a nightmare,” Nick said merrily, emerging onto the deck. Danse slid his arms off of John.

A pair of inhabitants stood on an emerging dock, arguing. “This looks like a less than warm welcome,” Nick warned as the sailed closer. “Danse, you might wanna keep both of your affiliations out of the picture – Brotherhood or synth.”

“Why would I publicly admit to being a synth?” The thought was ludicrous. Too many people already knew about him.

“Just watch your mouth. You get handed over to the Institute and you’ll find yourself scrubbing floors before you know it.”

Sour at taking commands from some old synth, Danse leapt onto the dock as soon as it was near enough, momentarily leaving him behind.

John hoped down an instant later. “Nice, creepy town you got here,” he said, raising his voice, addressing the people on the dock.

“Are you lost?” a woman asked, as both Far Harbor residents turned to face him.

“Do I look fuckin’ lost?” John countered, his demeanor abruptly shifting from mildly amused to annoyed.

“We don’t need no freeloaders or more _help_ ,” a bearded man growled. “’Specially from your kind. Get back in your boat and leave.”

As John continued to bristle, Danse put himself between them. The woman admonished the ill-mannered man, saying, “Allen, this isn’t your dock.”

Nick disembarked and warily hung back. Mumbling to his associates, Nick leaned in to whisper “Don’t lose your cool. These buncha hotheads could be sitting on all the info we need.”

“Sorry about this.” The woman turned back to them, contrite. She was older, with a hard edge of authority that Danse recognized at once. “What’s your business here?”

Danse made a grab for John’s arm as the ghoul pushed forward. “Don’t interrogate me,” he snarled, waving a finger at her. “You ain’t gotta welcome folks, but you better not stand in their way.”

“John, don’t,” Danse interjected, pulling him to one side. “I apologize if we’ve caught you at an inopportune time,” he addressed her. “I’m sure we can find another port.”

“We’re just looking for a girl,” Nick explained, calling over Danse’s shoulder. “Name’s Kasumi. Mighta come through these parts?”

“Sounds familiar. Maybe she did,” the woman said, noncommittally.

“Fat lot of help this crone is,” John muttered, his voice only reaching Danse’s ears.

Any further discussion halted as a rapid series of bells rang and another woman called down at the dock, “Something’s coming!”

Panic seemed to light up both Allen and the older woman’s eyes. “You. Help us,” the woman pleaded, fixating on Danse. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know after!” She and the insolent man took off running up the dock and into the town.

“Oh, _now_ you want our help,” John called after them as the two retreated up onto the roofs and tin awnings flanking the town.

Out in the fog, something roared loud and deep. Another bellow, seeming equal in size responded. More and more sounded until the air practically vibrated.

“With me,” Danse commanded to the others. He drew his rifle and sprinted down the dock, throwing himself up a series of stairways to find a row of tense harbormen all cowering behind their weapons. As he peered over the side of the rooftops, he caught sight of rudimentary fortifications flanking the gates leading into the town. Coils of barbed wire were strung between great, jutting wooden spears set at angles. A few mines and scattered traps were strewn off in the distance. Those strange blue lights generated a twirling vapor that appeared to combat the heavy fog choking the roadways beyond the wall. Rumbling growls floated through the haze, the creatures making them just out of sight, hidden in the milky whiteness of fog. Several residents kneeled with their weapons by the gate in full, foolish view of whatever would be coming.

John appeared at one elbow, Nick at the other. “Not quite the sleepy coastal town from the guidebooks,” the synth noted, over the barrel of his revolver.

“Course there had to be some kinda rescue. This town already knows how to motivate me,” John sighed, pulling his pistols. “Deathclaw pack?” he guessed, partially lit by the charging plasma in one of his pistols.

“Unlikely,” Danse answered, shifting his rifle to butt against his shoulder. Too used to wielding it while inside of his armor, the weapon felt large in his bare hands. “Climate is inconsistent with their known habitats.”

“Guess you’d be the expert on monsters and how to blow them apart,” Nick stated, very matter-of-fact.

“I very much am.”

 Another series of thunderous howls made the aluminum roof tremble beneath his feet. The outlines of enormous figures began to emerge from the mist. The shapes were all wrong for deathclaws – these creatures were more rounded and hunched, still bipedal but more amphibious in nature. A few sported bioluminescent lures dangling from the crowns of their heads.

“Get up into position,” Danse hollered down at the habormen imprudently assembling at the foot of the gate. They looked up at him, confusion in their wide eyes. They maintained their location, despite Danse’s warning. Cries of ‘Defend _the Hull_ ’ were shouted up and down the defense line. The entryway became a deafening place and weapons unloaded with cracks and booms, monsters roaring as they charged into full view. The few citizens at the gate were instantly slaughtered, torn apart by tooth and claw.

It had been far too long since he and Righteous Authority had brought death to the creatures of the Wastes. The rifle served as an extension of his arm, hot beams of red light landing precisely where he intended them to, burning neat wounds into the creatures as they threw themselves against the gates. Their smoldering bodies buried those of the dead harbormen beneath them.

The harbor put up an embarrassing display of defense, firing wildly into the mass of creatures that swarmed the entry. A few Molotov’s were cast, setting both their targets and the ramparts aflame. The older woman from the dock stood nearby, shouting commands over gunfire and the screams of the harbormen dying below. Danse made his way along the line, firing as he traversed. Reaching her, he shouted, “Stop wasting your ammunition and listen. The legs, always cripple the legs. Once they’re down, you shoot them under the jaw. Can you follow that?”

She stared at him dumbly for a second before calling out to her comrades “The legs! Every one of you! Go for the legs!”

He took the initiative, barking orders and running from rooftop to rooftop, behind the fire, reiterating commands as he maimed creature after creature. “Aim for the weak spots!” He finally took a full defensive position in a corner of the platforms, with the entire enclosure in view before him. When the last of the beasts had gone down, a mass of them still thrashing and growling, Danse took a breath and jumped down into the entry. Realizing too late that he wasn’t in his armor, he landed hard, the impact jarring his spine and sending pain to flare in his knees.

In a trashing heave, one of the beasts stung its head at him, gaping maw wide, rows of sharp teeth exposed. On instinct, he raised his weapon as the thing clamped down on both Righteous Authority and his arm. In the instant before teeth broke skin, he fired, blowing the back of the creature’s head off. Recovering, he angled his laser rifle once more, delivering instant mortality as he fired into the soft undersides of the fallen beasts jaws. Striding from one lashing brute to another, dancing just out of reach of their swiping talons, he cleared the gateway until his only company was the smoking, mutated bodies of Wasteland wildlife.

A cheer rose from the rooftops as Danse panted, splattered with gelatinous, dark green blood. His weapon remained in hand as he scanned the fog for any hint of movement. A few bangs and scrapes preceded the gates being thrown open. He cautiously backed into the safety of the settlement. Only when he was within its walls did he holster his rifle. The gates were left open as citizens climbed back down to the wharf, slapping each other on the back in congratulations and beaming at Danse. The older woman marched up to him. “Thank you. We may owe you our lives.”

“Have you lost your senses? Close that gate,” Danse snapped. “It’s a wonder that this town hasn’t fallen entirely. Were I waiting for the opportune time to attack the dock, it would be now, when defenses are low.” He was met by a few blank stares before a handful of people jumped into action, swinging the doors shut and barring them.

“Lookit you,” came John’s voice, as he made his way down from above, tucking his pistols back into his waistband, Nick on his heels. “Always the authoritarian.” The three of them met in a cluster by the entry.

The man from the dock, Allen, approached, raising his weapon once more.  “Humans only,” he stated. “No freaks allowed in Far Harbor.”

Danse halted, but John wasn’t swayed so easily. “Yeah, I get it. We’re good enough to fight and die for ya, but for-fuckin-bid we pollute your town with our presence.” This time, Danse didn’t try to restrain him. Fearlessly, John marched straight up to Allen, pushing his face so close that, had he still possessed his nose, theirs would have bumped. “What makes you so damned virtuous?”

“I’m still alive. I ain’t no rotting corpse.” The muzzle of Allen’s assault rifle nudged John in the chest.

It was Nick that interceded in time, catching John’s wrists as his hands slid towards his pistols. “Alright, kids. Settle down.”

Cautiously, Danse put a hand on John’s shoulder. That seemed to calm him; he forcefully stepped away from Allen, dropping his arms. “We’ll go,” Danse promised, steering John towards to archway to the dock, Nick joining them.

“Hey, man,” Allen continued, lifting his chin at Danse. “We’re not uncivilized xenophobes. Just the robot and the shuffler.”

The slur at John forced hot blood to rush to Danse’s face. The muscles in John’s shoulders tensed and Danse released him, his own fingers curling into fists. Nick made a grab for Danse’s collar, forcefully whispering “Can’t find answers if we’re all dead in a heap. Stay here. Learn something. We’ll be on the boat.” He jabbed a finger at John and raised his voice. “You. Stick with me.” Reluctantly, John parted from him and followed Nick down the dock, barely taking his black eyes off of Allen. Danse felt torn watching them go.

Although his memories currently rode around in a broken down synth, Nick Valentine had existed, had been a real person. Up until a few years ago, John had been an elite resident of Diamond City with smooth, intact skin. Of the three of them, Danse was the only one that was a complete fabrication, and the only one to look human. With his growing beard and sun-beaten skin, he bore a resemblance to any other fisherman that might pass through the town. Alone now, this was the angle he would have to use – seeming normal. 

The older woman reappeared by the pier entrance.  “Thank you, mainlander. Here” – she held out a bag of caps, which Danse waved away, failing to keep the repugnance off his face.

“That defense was sloppy and humiliating,” he admonished. “I was ashamed to have been part of it. It’s impressive that any of you survived. This can’t have been the first attack on your town. Who oversees your security?”  

“Largely, I do.” Her mouth had turned down at his raging disapproval. “I’m Captain Avery. I’m the one in charge of the Harbor. I know that I lack the training to build a better means of protection,” she added, humbly. “Most of us have only recently moved here. The Fog has been pushing us further and further out to sea each year.”

“What do you mean by _the fog_?” The way she spoke, it sounded ominous. 

“The fog is radioactive. Blankets most of the island. You’ve seen what lives in it.”

“And that ain’t even the real problem,” Allen added, joining her side. Danse nerves were still firing over his words. “Give me enough guns and hands and I’ll end those Children of Atom once and for all.”

“You have those cultists on the island?” Danse asked, although his knowledge of them was only in passing. Radiation worshipers were scattered throughout the Capitol. One group had tried to sabotage one of the water supplies, which was the only reason that Danse recalled those zealots at all.

“Those rad eaters are feeding the Fog, mark my words. Let me deal –”

“You did, Allen. And now matters are only worse. Go,” she said purposely to him. Allen threw her a venomous look and turned his back on them, disappearing into one of the storefronts.

“Sorry about that. Every town has their resident troublemaker, right?” Avery said, her attention back on Danse. “Kasumi, you said? She headed up to that synth refuge, Acadia.”

Something dropped hard in Danse’s stomach. “Synth refuge?” he repeated.

She nodded. “Quite a bit inland. You could ask Old Longfellow to show you the way. Sure as rain, you’ll find him at the bar.” She pointed down the pier.

Danse gave a swift jerk of his head, acknowledging her suggestion and found himself passing by crates of hide bundles and counters full of fish, traveling towards a building named _The Last Plank_. An Ill-omened title, Danse thought, as venturing into a nest of synths was at the bottom of his list of desires.

Upon entry into the establishment, he discovered where the rest of the townsfolk had disappeared to. A muddled cheer rang through the bar at his appearance, patrons toasting him with dusty bottles and dirty glasses. The barkeep shoved a free beer into his hand and clapped him on the back. When a fisherman launched into a half-drunk rendition of some tune called _The Hero of the Hull,_ Danse felt fit to sink straight through the floor. This type of drunken merriment was not at all like the proud celebrations held by the Brotherhood after a well won fight and he would rather have had this mockery of a battle be forgotten entirely. More harbormen joined in on the song, interjecting new lyrics all the while. It occurred to Danse that everyone on the island might just be insane.  

As he sank back from the crowd, an older man snagged his attention. “Saw you on the Hull. Been a long time since I’ve seen that kinda precision. You been a soldier, haven’t you?” he asked with a gruff voice.

“I…I served three tours with the NCR,” Danse answered, pulling a faction out of the air. He drank his beer to hide his discomfort. Lies had never been his strongest suit.

“That so?” The man’s hair and beard contained more salt than pepper. “Long way from home.”

“Yes. You could say that.”

“You got a wife back there?”

The back of his neck burned hot. “I…No. I don’t.” Danse supposed that he had John, although it wasn’t quite the same thing. He put his mouth on John’s and took comfort in his presence, but too many questions left Danse nervous. Where was this going? Had it gotten out of hand? Was it enough? Could this be a precursor to getting back to where they had once been? What that even what he wanted? He cared for John because of who he was, not for the body that he was in. Still, Danse wasn’t even sure if he would be able to push himself into a fully physical relationship, which seemed to be the next step.

“Name’s Longfellow,” the man said, rescuing Danse from his disquieting thoughts.

“Daniel” was the name Danse gave in return, preferring to not leave his surname to the annals of Far Harbor history.

“You heading out into the island?” Longfellow asked, taking a swig of his drink.

“It appears so.” Danse took a seat next to him. “I was told to find you.”

Longfellow gave him a slightly intoxicated smile and leaned in closer. “Son, do you even know what you’re in for out there? Those Children of Atom…they grab folks. Haul them away. Trappers, too.”

He raised an incredulous brow. “What are _trappers_?”

“Vicious men that rove the Island, driven mad by the fog. Move in big bands together. Good luck taking those bastards down.”

“I believe that I’m quite capable of handling myself.” He had to wonder why Avery had suggested he find this old loony.

The old man laughed, throwing his head back and cackling until his cheek turned red. “Son, I have no doubt.”

Danse took another swig from his bottle. Nearly all of the harbormen were clad in at least one piece of the same odd, olive-hued leather, the effect making them look so similar that he had trouble telling them apart.

Longfellow took a drink. Though his mirth had faded, pinkness still remained on his face. He fished in a pocket, pulling a key which he handed to Danse. “It’s gettin’ late. Take your group up to my place. Don’t get your hopes up – it’s just a little cabin past a sandbar.”

Danse tentatively accepted the key. “You’d do that for us? Why?”

Longfellow settled back in his chair with a lazy smile. “Not everyday that ditties get made up about mainlanders. The island is gonna remember you. Besides, won’t be the first time Mitch has let me sleep it off upstairs. I’ll give ya directions tomorrow. Just don’t wake me – I’ll find you when I’m ready.”

“Thank you. I…I don’t know what to say.” Danse stood to leave. As he walked away, he could hear Longfellow humming a few bars of _The Hero of the Hull_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Who We Are Now
> 
> Oh, this massive bastard. I apologize for the length of this chapter . I don’t know what happened – it just kept getting bigger. So much had to get set up and I couldn’t cut away to a different perspective to break it up.


	4. Who We Are Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 4: [RAIGN - WICKED GAMES](https://youtu.be/eX9oYG-DGwk/)  
> Pretty much the sexiest song I can think of.

JOHN

Far Harbor, ME

February 23rd, 2288

They passed through a thin white haze, rolling fluidly through the night. John felt a slight jolt as he stepped through it, almost like an electric shock. Neither Nick nor Danse seemed to notice though, and John dismissed the feeling as a misfire from his chem-burnt brain.

The path to the cabin was precarious, passing through the surf, and they were all soaked past their knees when they arrived. “The two of you should head inside,” Nick advised. “Sleep and warmth aren’t things I require to function. I’ll take some smokes if you’ve got ‘em, though.” John parted with a pack of cigarettes.  Nick touched the brim of his hat in thanks. “I’ll patrol and try to figure out what the deal with these puppies are,” he offered, kicking at a pole that housed one of the strange blue lights at the top.

“Appreciated,” Danse said, nodding to Nick, and John couldn’t have been prouder of him. Danse was being forced to reassemble his views and, although he had a long way to go, he seemed to be on the right path. Seeing him launch into a leadership role at the harbor was exactly what John had hoped for and now he was even being decent to Nick. As they banged into the cabin, he held onto those thoughts.

“Seems like you had a hell of a night,” John said, sitting on the single bed to pull his wet boots off. He arranged his pistols on the bedside table, within grabbing distance. He pulled his lighter and lit the oil lamp by the bed. A warm orange glow filled the dark room.

“Yes, I suppose that is one accurate description,” Danse agreed, sliding the shoulder strap of his rifle off. He sat heavily onto the couch with a thump and let his head fall back, heaving a sigh, spreading his arms over the back.

John watched him for a moment, turning his lighter over in one hand, before pushing himself to his feet. A few scattered candles sat on the table; he lit those as well. He pocketed the lighter and glanced back at Danse. He looked more rugged now with his shaggy hair and beard, but the candlelight softened his features, making him look younger and peaceful.

John had never been shy about what he coveted. If he wanted to get high, he found chems. If he wanted to get drunk, he found beers. Now, he wanted Danse. Crossing to him, he eased one knee down on the couch cushion before throwing the over Danse, settling into his lap, his leather pants squeaking as they stretched.

Danse raised his head and gave a lazy smile. “I thought I wasn’t your type.”

“I’m a liar,” John whispered, tilting his head to tug at Danse’s ear with his teeth. “You’re exactly my type.” When they kissed, John pressed himself against him, rolling his body. He could feel Danse trembling where his thighs squeezed him. Danse broke away, holding John back by taking his shoulders.

Laying every card her had on the table, John admitted, “I still love you.”

Danse’s mouth opened and he stared. “After all this time? How…how is that possible?”

He gave his most genuine smile. “I never stopped.”

Struggling to find the words, Danse swallowed hard and shook his head. “I want to say it, I do. I…I don’t know why I can’t.”

He softly traced the scar on Danse’s brow. “We’ve done this before. You’ll get there.”

Danse’s gaze dropped to the floorboards. “How we left things in Hartford…”

 _Goddammit._ John lowered his hand as his smile fled. He rose out of Danse’s lap and turned his back on him. “I don’t wanna talk about Hartford.” Events in Hartford had marked the end of the five years they had spent together. This was the last topic that John wanted to discuss.

But Danse kept talking. “What you offered…did you even want that?”

He unzipped his jacket and removed it, biding time to give his answer. The leather felt cool and tacky from the salt air. “Think…maybe I felt like things were coming apart. Was tired of missing you, tired of fighting. Thought it might fix everything.”

“Because we were broken?” Danse ventured.

He bunched the jacket in his hands. “Yeah…” John answered slowly. “I think we were broken.” The honesty wasn’t refreshing; it was painful. Releasing his jacket, he draped in over a chair.

He felt a hand on his shoulder of his white shirt and Danse turned him, kissing him solidly. “I’ll never stop being sorry for my actions,” Danse said, putting his hands on John’s narrow hips. “I know that won’t change anything.”

“Won’t lie. It helps some.” He folded Danse’s jacket back, pulling it down off of his shoulders.

Again, Danse pulled away. “You’re going to have to be patient with me. I’m no longer repulsed and that much amazes me. This process of…being with you…it’s difficult and…so very complicated. In rare moments, I don’t see you as you are. I see you as I remember, as my John.”

A faint smile teased at John’s lips. “ _Yours_?”

“Yes.” Danse seized John’s mouth with his, shrugging the rest of the way out of his jacket. Fire pooled in the air between them as they both struggled to shed clothing. Time seemed swollen and heavy, pressing a tension down upon them. Words felt stupid – they always got in the way, stalling them. Nothing he could say would be able to translate the conjunction of rapid-fire thoughts and initiative growing inside of him. Finally free of their apparel, they stood panting, foreheads together as their heaving chests met. Danse trailed one hand down the ripples of hardened scars covering John’s abdomen. It tickled, making him shudder and sending a surge straight through his insides. Once again, Danse drew back, letting his hand fall. Sitting on the bed, he didn’t meet John’s eyes. Disappointment sank into John’s belly.

John sighed and stood straight, the full moon shining at his back through the open slots in the window. “Dan, look at me.” Danse dragged his apprehensive eyes over his boney body. John McDonough had always been a thin man. As Hancock, he knew that he was positively cadaverous. He held his hands at his sides in a defeated manner. “This is who we are now. Can’t change that.”

“I…understand. I’m upset with myself, not with you.”

Moving to sit beside him, John leaned to kiss Danse’s back, laying hands on him. Suddenly, Danse lurched away from him, pitching forward and almost off the bed. John exhaled and leaned back, pulling his hands from Danse’s shoulders. “Gonna be a long night if you keep changing your m –”

“I haven’t been with anyone since you,” Danse sputtered in a rush. “I…I suppose the truth is that I’ve only been with you. My memories of Cutler…they never happened.”

Nerves. Nerves hadn’t really occurred to John. He had been so fixated on Danse’s history of narrowmindedness that he had neglected to imagine him as a lonely soldier with only his duty and beliefs to keep him warm at night. How long had it been? Five years? Almost six? Danse hadn’t replaced him with someone else, and John supposed that he should have been relieved. But being compared to his former self raised unbidden insecurities. “Guess we got some catching up to do then?” he said, with a confidence that he no longer felt.

Danse took John’s face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs across worn cheeks. They kissed and embraced, falling back onto the bed as their bodies entangled, all the while John struggling to release the fear of judgment or scrutiny and simply surrender to pure sensation.

The tables had turned and both were anxious now. The action was slow to get going, with a lot of false starts, fumbling and tension. Sparing him from having to look directly upon him, John kept Danse’s back to him, twining their fingers, showering him with affection and aggressive kisses spreading from Danse’s ears down the back of his neck and across his shoulders. “Keep talking,” Danse breathed, now prone beneath him. “It helps. I need to know that this is you.”

John scrabbled for what to say. “You remember the first time?”

“Alexandria?”

“Yeah.” A hand slid down Danse’s back and passed over his hip, trailing lower. “You remember what I did to you?”

Danse released a shaky breath. “Everything that I asked for.” He was squirming now, grinding down into the mattress.

John dragged his lower lip up Danse’s neck as he moved against him. “You begged me.” He sucked on his neck, tasting salt from both the air and Danse’s sweat.

Danse’s grip could have easily broken John’s hand. “I did.”

“You didn’t know who I was. But you wanted _me_.” John found the warmth he was searching for and when their bodies interlocked Danse gave a strangled cry that sounded delectable. “You… wanted… _this_.” He moved with every word. Danse groaned and strained against him. “You…asked me…in _vivid_ … _fucking_ … _detail_. Remember?”

“Yes. _Yes_.”

He bit Danse’s shoulder, taking gentle mouthfuls of supple flesh between his teeth, muffling his own cries as Danse twisted beneath him, quaking and gasping, the pressure within their laced hand so intense that John could feel bone shifting.

It was all over too soon. They didn’t move, shivering together as the cold ocean air swept over them. Eventually, John collapsed beside his partner, resting against his shoulder. Danse rolled into him, sealing them together in a sideways embrace. He wrapped one arm around the underside of John’s neck, hand reaching up to cradle his head, nestling closer. 

John clung to him, back in Danse’s arms again after all this time and against all odds. He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Consolation
> 
> I'm trying so hard to push myself out of my comfort zone. I'd love to make this far more explicit. Maybe in the Director's Cut???


	5. Consolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 5: [John Legend - All Of Me (LIVE Violin Cover by Robert Mendoza)](https://youtu.be/YROOI2kKvGw/)  
> Something sweet and romantic.

DANSE

Shadow Ridge, RI

March 15th, 2279

As he lay on his back, sheets damp with perspiration beneath him, his hands rose to lace with John’s, pulling him down and holding him close. His heart pounded up through his chest to rattle John’s ribcage with throbbing force. John’s body was all angles where Danse’s was more rounded with muscle. Yet, they fit together easily.

John chuckled into Danse’s chest. He shook his hair back and brought trusting eyes up. “I can’t feel my legs.” His hazel irises appeared a smoky green today and his hair was wild and enormous.

Their bodies felt clammy where they connected. This didn’t keep John from kissing his way up Danse’s chest, as far as he could reach, still watching him. “We’re sweaty,” Danse panted, stating an obvious fact.

John’s eyes danced mischievously. Lurching forward, he dragged his tongue up the side of Danse’s face, headless of beard growth. “Claimed.”

Danse dodged away, making a phony sound of complaint. His fingers dug into John’s sides in retaliation, making him jerk and wriggle in his clutches. John was laughing as he fought to free himself.

Upon returning to the Citadel following his previous leave, Danse had been promptly greeted with an unexpected medical evaluation. He had panicked, fearing that trace amounts of Calmex in his system would cost him his career. However, the response from the medical officer had taken Danse by surprise, commending his use of the drug, amazed that Danse had even located the vials to begin with. _‘Share some with your Brothers next time. They could probably all use a dose.’_ He hadn’t been let off the hook entirely. Only after a stern warning to never take Calmex while on active duty, had the issue been dropped. The caution was unmerited; he only took the drug when on leave with John, and less often now than he had when he began. He had grown to look forward to long hours of deep sleep without dreams, effortless intimacy unblemished by questions or doubt, and the adoration in the eyes of the man with the yellow hair that was reserved exclusively for him.

Rolling off of him, John began the typical search for clothing in their aftermath. A few beams of indirect sunlight spilled in through a broken window, making his loose hair appear gilded. They had taken up residence in a garage with living quarters. Coming across locations with legit beds were rare, and they made ample use of them when found. Having located his pants, John slipped into them before dropping to his knees to find his combat boots.

“Come back to bed,” Danse said, holding a hand out for him to take.

John tossed his shoes into the middle of the garage and sat up. Sliding a band around his hair, he shook his head. “Unless you’re lookin’ for me to smoke in here, you’re gonna let me go.” He shook out his shirt and forced his arms through the sleeves, pulling at the front of it before his fingers began lacing the ties closed. His hands danced as he worked the laces, daylight flashing off of his rings in tiny white bursts. The smallest finger on his right hand was bare.

“You have space for another ring.”

John paled and froze. “Never say that to me,” he said, blond eyebrows meeting in a crinkled V over the bridge of his nose. The final lace was tied with an abrupt tug. He didn’t look at Danse and sank to the floor to gather his boots. “Headin’ out for a bit. Don’t wait.”

A peculiar sense of confusion settled on him and Danse wasn’t sure what he had done wrong. He was out of bed and into most of his clothes before John had finished securing his boot laces around the ankles of his pants. He sank down so that they were on an even level. “John…I’m not sure what offended you but, please…I want to know.”

John’s gaze was blank. “Yeah…sure I’ve got space. But I ain’t about to add one.” The fingers of one hand brushed over the adornments of the other. “My rings…they’re for the people I’ve gotten killed.”

“I…didn’t know that.”

Having finished ties his laces, John sat on the floor of the garage. Danse took a seat beside him. “I won’t add any more. _I can’t_. Especially not one for you. Never for you.” He looked so distraught that Danse enfolded him in his arms. John returned the embrace. “I love you, Dan,” he said over Danse’s shoulder.

Words deserted him. He couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound exceptionally insincere. He had been able to freely say the words to Cutler, whisper it as they stood in trenches, waiting for Enclave attacks or nights alone on patrol, whenever they found themselves alone. But for John, the words just couldn’t come.

Danse slid out of his arms. “…we’ve discussed this…”

Hanging his head, John asked, “…are you with someone else?...At your base?”

Danse rose up off of the floor. “Don’t be preposterous.” An open homosexual relationship at the Citadel. Preposterous. John had lost his mind. “I’m not with anyone else. I can barely handle being with you.”

The reality of Danse’s comment sank in. John gave a snorting laugh. “For fuck’s sake, Dan – what are we doing?” He looked up at him, eyes harsh and sharp. “What the hell else do you want out of me?”

“For things to be exactly as they are. _This_ is what I want.”

“And what if I want more?”

 _More? What more could there be?_ “There’s no _more_ that I can accommodate. Given my career, this is the only –”

John stood, his features sliding into an angry glare. “I know damn well about your career.” He bit into his lip before continuing. “Anytime there’s a flash, a burst of orange at the edge of my perception…it’s always _Invictus_ , going down. Every single time. You’ve been blown apart dozens of times. I’ve _seen_ it.” He was gesturing wildly with his hands, tapping fingers against his temples. “I’ve seen you burning in the streets, raiders stringing up your body. ‘Birds go down all the time. How do I know it’s not yours? I’m given the luxury of waiting. Maybe you’ll send a message when you can. Or you won’t. Or can’t. How would I ever know it wasn’t you? Or even if it was?” He looked haunted, terrified. “You’re kept outta my reach. I _cannot_ get to you. Fuck. Dan…if you die, who’s gonna tell me?”

Danse adored John. He did. He was fun and daring and made him happy. And although he wanted to put his fears to rest, he still couldn’t say it, couldn’t lie. “John, you’re an addict. Your emotional state is just an extension of that fact. Paranoia,” he nodded, convincing himself. “That’s all this is.”

John looked like he had been punched in the gut. Danse immediately regretted his words and looked away, not wanting to witness his hurting. He wanted to put his hands on John’s shoulders and comfort him with untruths, anything to avoid his broken expression. “Look, I understand that I’ve put you in an unfair situation. But I cannot make the option of contacting me a reality. This is something that is simply out of my control.”

“Because you don’t give two shits about me.” He looked up in time to catch John tapping his chest for emphasis.

“John…” Danse struggled with his temper before continuing. “You know that isn’t true.”

“Then just _say it_.” His wide eyes pleaded.

Danse threw up his hands and stepped backwards. Did John really think that he was such an awful soldier to be brought down by some random accident? “I am not going to get drawn into this conversation with you _again_. You just have to trust me. Everything will be fine.”

“For you,” John said, nodding, his glare full of venom. “Everything will be fine for _you_. I could get eaten by goddamned bugs and nothing would change _for you_.” They were circling each other now, as if they were enemies instead of lovers.

Danse gave a disgusted grunt. He marched over to his supply pack and dug all the way to the bottom. Stalking back, he shoved a canister into John’s hands. “If you’re so worried, _here_. That’s a vertibird signal grenade. If you find yourself in more trouble than you can manage, any nearby patrols will see the smoke and come straight for it. They’ll be forced to clear the immediate area in order to land. You’ll be able to get away.”

John frowned at the grenade in his hand. “I feel like this is a crappy consolation prize for not letting me into your life.”

“The Brotherhood _is_ my life. You condemn the actions of my Brothers and Sisters and yet you do nothing to combat acts that you personally deem unjust.”

John blinked at him through huge eyes. “And how I am supposed to do that? I’m just one guy – you’re part of an army!”

“You can start be spending less time with your chems and more time doing something that actually matters,” Danse spat. “Until that time, don’t you dare lecture me on what’s actually important. Is that understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” John gibed, quiet rage written all over his face. He spun and slammed a hand down on the garage door release button. As it cranked open, he snatched his bag from the corner where he had stowed it, dropping the grenade inside.

Something had splintered between them. They had come apart, cracked like a rotten log. John was out of the garage long before the gears stopped rolling. They had shared a number of non-verbal good-byes before, but none like this. This time it hurt. For the first time he could recall, they parted without a gesture or a touch. Danse watched him go for a brief instant before pushing the button again. The door slid closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The Precipice of Greatness 
> 
> Note: I’ve seen many amazing works, housed both at AO3 and elsewhere, that highlight the love and acceptance between all different types of pairings. I think it’s fantastic that Bethesda gave of us romanceable characters where the dialogue is (mostly) the same regardless of the gender of the player character. I love that fandom as a whole has kind of decided that equality exists for all, no made what fictional world the characters are in.  
> But…  
> But.  
> The environment of Fallout is very specific. This was a world that went from having 1950s ideals to losing all connections with social progress. These are roving bands of survivors and religious-based groups (like the BoS and Enclave). If anything, this society would have suffered a progressive backslide into intolerance, division, and fear.  
> From the beginning, I’ve always intended for this work to be a very different work of fiction then the majority of stories on this site. In this series, I’ve been treading lightly over Danse’s experiences as a gay man in the Brotherhood and how he deals with it. I feel that Danse’s fear of discovery is very valid and feeds his reluctance to acknowledge a relationship with John in their early days. In New Vegas, Veronica will tell you that the faction pretty much has a ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy that, if broken, has repercussions. With the emphasis that I’ve put on music in this series, a violin cover of ‘Take Me to Church’ has ALWAYS been the main theme song to this entire work (to be featured in a season much later on). I haven’t seen this type of subject dealt with in a fanwork before and I’m trying to battle between how visceral and gut-wrenching and honest I want to make the scenarios regarding his life at the Citadel to be and how easy it is to just be cowardly and not mention the views of his fraternity (or his personal fears). Ultimately, I would love for this to be a much more explicit piece in the Director’s Cut, with enhanced violence, sex, and general detail overall. 
> 
> These are just my opinions on this particular work. I hope that you will engage me in a dialogue regarding these notes. I’d be very interested in what you all have to say.


	6. The Precipice of Greatness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 6: Gary Jules - I Want You To Want Me   
> Simple and soft.

DANSE

Far Harbor, ME

February 24th, 2288

The room was cool when he awoke, filled with the freshness of sea mist and morning dew. He could hear the gentle tumble of waves against the shore from beyond the windows. Danse felt an odd sense of accomplishment at having slept through the night unassisted. The night before, he and John had roused only long enough to fill their bellies before falling into each other’s arms again.

He pawed for John but found the rest of the bed cold and empty, and sat up in alarm. It was uncommon that John would rise before him.

Dressing hurriedly, Danse burst out of the cabin to find John quietly tending to a cooking fire out front, sitting on a rock as he stirred a pot.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Watching his footing down the broken steps, Danse joined him by the fire, holding his cold fingers out to the flames. A familiar, rich aroma wafted, and when John handed him a mug, he graciously took it and sat down beside him. Looking down at the liquid, he smiled. He drank it and sighed. John had always gotten the ratio just right; he brewed it smooth and robust, not at all as bitter as others concocted. “I’ve missed your coffee. Mess officers tend to insist on generating sludge.” He regarded John and gave a short laugh. “And I miss your hair.”

“It was pretty fabulous,” John agreed, sipping his coffee, hand brushing over his bandana.

Danse’s cheeks felt tight. How long had it been since he smiled for any other reason than over prideful success? They sat together before the fire, mugs heating their hands, knees and shoulders touching. Warmed by hot drink and the memory of his ardor for John, he took hold of the other man’s face by the chin. He put his mouth on John’s, kissing him down into his soul and past that ghastly exterior. Their fiery, passionate kiss ended with John sucking on Danse’s fat lower lip, making him groan.

Someone coughed. “If you two of you are quite finished with one another, we’ve still got a case to solve.”

They slowly drew apart to catch Nick Valentine watching with a smug look on his face. The only movement from the synth was the steady trail of smoke from his cigarette tip.

“The jig is up,” John mumbled. As the surf pounded, home seemed very far away. Danse exhaled, feeling a fair amount of relief at not having to hide.

“Figured I’d give you the head’s up,” Nick warned. “Company’s coming.”

Longfellow appeared out of the mist, black coat swinging past his knees. “Well, least I only gotta worry about one of you being affected by the fog.”

Danse looked around. True, he alone was at a disadvantage. John and Nick would not be impacted in the same manner that he would be. “I’ll get my supplies,” he said, sliding off the rock. He ventured back into the cabin, John sticking to him like a shadow. Picking up his rifle, he grabbed what he could for the trip.

“Ya know,” John said, as Danse shook Rad-X into his palm. “It’s only a matter of time before your Steel pals coming knocking in Sanctuary. Say I asked you to come back to Goodneighbor with me – would you go?”

“I…No…Not yet.” Appearing together in the Commonwealth would raise too many questions. Questions that Danse wasn’t ready to answer.

“Because of the way I run it?”

Danse swallowed his pills dry and sighed. “It seems that you and I continue to have very different opinions on what freedom means.”

“Meaning?”

He ran a hand along the shoulder strap of his rifle before turning to answer. “I feel that the tone of Goodneighbor borders on anarchy and I know that you’re better than that. You have the potential to do far more.”

“So it’s not good enough for you?” John’s question had a derisive bite to it.

“John…” He gently laid his hand on the ghoul’s elbow, attempting to use more than words to get his point across. “How many people die in your streets from alcohol and chems? From fighting? How often?”

“They want to be there. They _want_ to do that.”

“Raiders do what they please, as well.”

John pulled out of his grasp. “And here we are again. You and your fucking standards.”

Danse’s shoulders sagged. Maybe this was as far as John could come, to stagger at the precipice of greatness only to concede. “You employ slavers thinking that it doesn’t matter, that if not for you, they would simply more on to the next town. How many children does Goodneighbor house? How many families? Is it getting any bigger? Any safer? Does it suit your needs or the needs of the Commonwealth? If the answers to these questions are _none_ and _no_ or you’re not sure, then you understand my concern.”

“If I changed things...?” John pressed, scanning the floor vacantly.

Danse ventured away to stuff fusion cells in a rucksack. “I still couldn’t say.”

John fell silent. There was no further discussion on the subject. Thank God. John pushing him had never led to a positive place.

Longfellow led them up a mountain trail in a row, him first with Danse close at hand, John and Nick trailing behind. Barren trees clogged the island areas, stretching up to the heavens, a palpable key difference between here and the Wasteland. They stuck to a broken road, deep crevices in the asphalt wide enough to trip and cripple anyone not paying close enough attention, which was a difficult task in the haze. The fog rolled in and out in various levels of thickness, sometimes thick as clouds, choking daylight, sometimes trailing away to nothing. Danse took another Rad-X.

He trudged closer to Longfellow, putting distance between him and the two at back. “I have to ask,” he began. “My… _associate_ was given a harsh reception. Why aren’t there any ghouls in Far Harbor? Normal ones, I mean, not ferals. Do they have a settlement of their own, like the synths in Acadia?”

“Hmph. That’s a sad tale to hear told. And I’m not nearly drunk enough to tell it.”

Opening his mouth to question him, Danse caught sight of a figure by the road and halted, throwing out an arm to stop Longfellow in his tracks; he crashed into his arm. “Careful, son. You’re gonna knock an old man down.”

Someone – a woman? – in tattered, dirty robes knelt between the trees, rocked back and forth, hands above their head.

“Hmph,” Longfellow grumbled as Danse lowered his arm. “Another rad-worshiping lunatic.” He brought his rifle up, leveling the barrel at her. He pulled the slide back on his gun with force, letting it click loudly into place.

At the sound, the being – it _was_ a woman – twisted her head around and lowered her hands. Under the patchiest head of hair Danse had seen from anything other than a ghoul, she grinned. Broken, rotted brown teeth parted as she stated “I am shielded by my faith. No harm can come to me.”

“Ain’t no one looking to harm you,” came John’s voice, having caught up to them.

Her head tilted slowly, dragging her eyes to John. “One of Atom’s forsaken. A most rare sight.”

“Yeah, I’m splendid.” Turning attention to him, John commanded Longfellow, “Put your damn gun down”. The old hunter grumbled something about a ‘Waste of ammo’ but obeyed.

She stepped up to John, circling him, her eyes bright and mad as she studied him, a hand hovering just over his chest. Danse wanted to shove her away. “Acadia is a nest of snakes. Should that be your destination, you will be led astray. You have already been touched by the Glow. Surrender. Give yourself to the Eternal Light and the will of Atom will set you free.”

John edged away from her. “Yeah…not my bag. Thanks, though.”

She ogled him through sunken eyes, extending her hand to him. “Would you deny salvation? You straddle the ether between what was and what shall be. You can avoid the inevitable. Only through the acceptance of His gifts can you be saved.”

“We’re wastin’ time,” Longfellow observed, heading off again. “Let’s move on.”

“They sure do grow ‘em crazy up here in the North,” Nick added from the back, resuming their journey and passing the other two to follow the hunter. “Grandpa’s right – gotta keep going.”

“John, come on,” Danse urged. The woman stared at John as if she was starving and he was fresh, bloody meat. Dirty fingernails raked the air over his face, tracing, as if memorizing the lines and divots. The ghoul continued to gawk at her, engrossed. “ _John_.”

“Yeah,” John said, breaking away to follow the others. Danse insisted on taking the rear guard. When he looked behind him, the woman was gone, swallowed up by the fog.

“Why’d you have to be a dick?” John questioned Longfellow. “She wasn’t bothering anyone.”

“You’ve got a hell of a lot to learn, newcomer. Zealots like that poison the Island. You’re either with them or you ain’t. They don’t take kindly to nonbelievers.”

“Their God is…radiation?” Danse tried to recall as he hopped over sections of downed foliage, easing a bag of mirelurk jerky from his pack and fishing a piece out.

“The Atom, to hear them tell it. Buncha freaks, you ask me.”

“Watch your company, friend,” Nick reminded. “That word isn’t well received.”

“Why did you speak to her?” Danse asked John, extending the bag of jerky to him. The entire encounter had been eerie.   

“Maybe I’m just an asshole that thinks folks should do and worship whatever the hell they want,” John answered, obviously still angry with him. He pulled a jerky strip from the bag and tore at it savagely with his teeth. Danse hung back, giving him space, as if distance would heal them.

As they traveled, a few wind turbines appeared beyond the trail, towering out of the mist, their blades sluggishly churning. Up ahead, the sky cleared, fog hanging back to hug the road. The rounded steel dome of an observatory rose into view as the grade leveled. Bulwarks surrounded the building, which seemingly sported better defenses than Far Harbor. Cars and other large items were stacked along the insides of a barricade, made useless by the open gate. There was on one to be seen.

“Either somebody is getting lazy or we’re expected,” Nick observed.

“They’ve already been watchin’ us for a good spell,” Longfellow confirmed. He slapped Danse on the back. “I’m headin’ back down, Danny boy. Seek me out when you’re done here. We can have a drink and a good laugh about all this.”

Danse wasn’t too sure about either, but he nodded. “Thank you. You’ve offered us more than you needed to. I’ll keep you informed of our return.”

With that, Longfellow turned and vanished back into the fog.

“Sure this’ll be easy, right?” Nick’s voice dripped with sarcasm as they climbed the stairs to the observatory. “In and out and home before dinner?” Pulling the door open, Nick ushered the others inside. As the door closed, they made their way down a short corridor. Numerous rolls of the same sallow leather from the harbor sat in a stack by a door. The concrete walls seemed almost oppressive, covered in mildew and dank from the fog seeping in through holes in the dome above. Dozens of display screens, both rounded and angular, emitted sapphire glows from the central rotunda. A few sparse halogens cast ocher light to spill down the walls.

As they entered the pavilion, a figure rose, assisted by the push of an automatic chair. A lanky, bipedal creature turned to greet them, taking a few steps into the beams of light falling from the fragmented roof. Danse held his breath when he saw it. Additional drives and wiring had been fused into its body, snaking down its limbs in thick cords that looked like entrails.  Electrodes adorned the back of its head and shoulders like the crown and mantle of some perverted king. The most nightmarish synth he had ever witnessed stood before them, raising an open palm and giving a calm smile.

“Salutations, Brother,” it said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Remember Me
> 
> Not sure if anyone is reading this all the way through but cheers if you've stuck with me!


	7. Remember Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 7: [Lana Del Rey - Once Upon A Dream ](https://youtu.be/8waJ7W3QcJc/)  
> DiMA's theme.

NICK

Acadia, ME

February 24th, 2288

The synth’s eyes were dull and lifeless, retinas the same ashen color as the rest of his skin. The same color as Nick’s skin. The crisscrossing of scars seemed familiar. It was like looking into a fun house mirror and having a warped version gaze back at him. “Synth-kind welcomes you, travelers,” it hailed. “I am DiMA.”

“What the hell are you?” John asked, and Nick jammed an elbow into his ribs.

“It’s alright. I understand that my appearance can be a bit…unsettling.” The way it spoke – the way _he_ spoke – was relaxed and amiable, the effect soothing. It was neigh impossible to gauge intent from him. “I mean you no harm. I try and greet all newcomers personally. Abandoning one’s entire life is…a bold step.”

Several popping sounds emitted to Nick’s right. He spied Danse flexing his fingers, cracking his knuckles in discomfort, his lips pursed sourly. “Some aren’t given that choice,” he said, eyes stern beneath his furrowed brow.

“That is true. Occasionally, revelations about one’s self can come at inopportune times. Tell me – are you one of my lost children?”

Danse didn’t answer, muscles twitching in his cheeks.

“Ah. You are. Have no fear, friend. All are welcome here.”

Danse sucked air through his nose. “I’m no friend of yours.”

This was about to go very badly, Nick could tell. Bringing Danse might have been a mistake.

“Early model synths are dangerous and unpredictable,” Danse said, sliding back into old habits. His hand tightened on his rifle strap. “You aren’t even remotely human. Why on Earth should we trust you?”

Nick’s doppelganger gave Danse a placid nod of his head. It descended step by step from the dais at the observatory’s center with a fluid grace so smooth that it was unnerving. “True, that my precursors are capable of great damage. But they exist only as tools programmed to do many things, among which, to initiate violence and disorder.”

He was growing impatient. This was going nowhere fast. “Enough chit-chit and lollygagging. We’re here for the girl, Kasumi Nakano. Are you hiding her here or not?”

“Nick?” his copy asked in a dubious, soft tone. “It can’t be...” DiMA moved with a slow, controlled elegance, every shift of his body deliberate and careful. He floated more than walked until he loomed before Nick. The augmentations to his body rose from his mechanical skull and shoulders like the spines from some prehistoric relic, making him seem menacing and massive. His lifeless eyes scanned Nick’s yellow optics. “Do you…not remember me? We were prototypes together in the Institute…”

Nick’s time at the Institute remained the biggest void in his past. His cogs were rattled that some synth on an island in the middle of nowhere would even presume to recognize him. “That’s so?” he inquired, playing along.” Keep talking…”

“I was allowed to grow, change into whatever I might have become. But you…you were meant to house a fully integrated personality. I...I was there for you every time that they failed. Every time that you woke up not knowing where you were, it was I who tended to you.” He seemed downtrodden as he spoke, making small, sad gestures with graceful hands. “You and I…we escaped together. We are, for lack of a better description, brothers.”

Flipping through every memory he had, Nick drew a black. Nothing. “That’s the biggest load of bologna I’ve ever heard,” he said and shook a slim, steel finger at DiMA. “You ain’t gonna use me as some patsy. I know you’ve been keeping the synths that venture to the island, so where are they? Far Harbor might have turned you out and forgotten about you but we won’t stop until we find –”

With slender palms raised, DiMA interrupted. “I am no enemy of Far Harbor. You may have witnessed those lights that mark the perimeter to the marina. Those are fog condensers. We at Acadia build those as a gift for the human inhabitants with the hope that we would be welcomed in return. Alas, such was not to be.  Our kind was dispatched from the harbor, along with the ghouls” – John perked up at that – “and sent off to fend for ourselves. They accepted our assistance to use those condensers to turn back the fog. They are the only devices standing between the people of the town and devastation.”

“And if those condensers were destroyed or disabled?” asked Danse, ever the strategist. No doubt he was building a failsafe plan to doom everyone who disagreed with his methods.

“The fog would roll in and claim the island fully,” DiMA answered with grave certainty. “We only seek to exist without interference. Those who come know what they are committing themselves to –”

“Hey,” John interjected. “Not that I can hate on your _all are welcome_ line – though I’m pretty sure it was mine first – but you ain’t exactly helping them. You’re just hiding them.”

DiMA inclined his head in submission, John’s words apparently hitting home. “The island is an unkind place. Venturing out into the fog and encountering those that inhabit it – the experience can be quite trying.”

“Pretty trying for those who ain’t synths, as well,” John reminded, and Nick recalled at the harbormen dying at the gate leading into Far Harbor.

A tilt of its head. “Given the company you choose to keep, are you certain that you aren’t a synth as well?”

Throwing back his head, John let loose a barking laugh that echoed within the metal chamber. He raised his arms in a humble shrug. “Don’t think the Institute is too keen on building ghoul synths. Might just go against their code.”

“True,” DiMA agreed, the faintest hint of amusement playing behind those pallid eyes. “The disintegrated tissues would prove impossible to replicate.”

Looking around the vaulted foyer, the lack of other synths was palpable. “So, where are you keeping them?” Nick asked, bringing the focus back to their task. “You seem to be hurting for lackeys.”  

“Everyone has a job to do,” DiMA said in that too calm voice of his. “I keep them busy and out of sight from those who might wish to harm them. They come to me, trust me, and I have a duty to sequester them until a time when I can –”

This time it was Nick’s turn to interpose. “I’ve had enough,” he sneered at his twin. “You’re a kidnapper, plain and simple. And if you won’t tell us where the girl is, maybe a lynch mob of townspeople can convince you to.” He turned and stalked back out the way they had come, knocking the door open with force, and bursting out into twilight. By the time John and Danse had emerged after him, he was at the bottom of the stairs, shaking the last cigarette from its pack. “What a load of hogwash,” he growled as he lit it.

“Gotta state the obvious, Nick,” John said, jumping down the last few stairs. “Seemed like he mighta been on the level.”

Sure, he thought, but that wasn’t the point. Out of all the lives that he had led, both as Nick Valentine, pre-war gumshoe, and Nick Valentine, synth detective, little had shocked him. He was well versed in the depths of depravity that humans could go to and his casework didn’t do much to offend him. But uncertainty about his own existence…He had long since stopped chasing demons from his past. After it had become abundantly clear that he would find neither answers nor closure to his history, he had put it aside entirely. If he spent his days in turmoil about his own creation, he might as well end up like Danse, paralyzed to move forward, trapped in a deep pit of self-doubt and distrust.

“So, what now?” asked Danse, scanning the area. The fog was thick as ever, crawling along the road ahead as they approached it. “Are you really going to try and rally a mob from the harbor? That…seems excessive.”

“I just…I need time to think.” It was almost worse to think of DiMA telling the truth. That someone had been with him through some harrowing escape and he had forgotten all about it.

The fog rolled over the lot of them. John shuddered as he soaked it up, his whole body quaking. “Whoo!” He hopped up and down like a boxer juicing up to enter the ring, hands jiggling at his sides, looking quite like the addict that he was. “You feel that?” he asked, grinning like a madman. “The island…it…it throbs.” He shook a hand in front of his chest for emphasis.

Nick pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “Maybe you should head on home there, Sparky.”

Even Danse looked concerned, his head cocked, observing the ghoul’s behavior as if he had suddenly turned purple. “Agreed. Standing out here in this fog is careless. Let’s move.”

John’s fingers were laced over his head, eyes serenely closed, drinking deep of the vapor. Danse cuffed him with the butt of his rifle as he passed. He startled, and began to follow.

Nick remained rooted to the spot, sucking on his cigarette. All the pirouetting that DiMA had done around the subject of where the Acadian synths might have been located left him unnerved. The island was shaping up to be more sinister than it had seemed, and not just on behalf of DiMA. The reception at Far Harbor had been equally off-putting. Everyone appeared to speak in half-truths, omitting the majority of facts in lieu of self-preservation.

Turning in the fog, haze up to his chest, Danse called, “Valentine?”

“I just…I’ll catch up. I need answers.” If anyone on this godforsaken island was likely to speak candidly, it might just be his clone. DiMA talked of a shared history and a longing was evident in the way he spoke to Nick. “If I find the girl, I’ll bring her straight back down to you.”

“Remain vigilant.”

He threw his cigarette to the ground and shuffled his feet. Out of all the settlements in all the world, Kasumi had to walk into this one. “This could be the beginning of a terrible friendship,” he warned himself, climbing the stairs back up to Acadia.


	8. Wind Up and Pitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 8: [Hidden Citizens - Silent Running](https://youtu.be/6lu82oMmJ2o/)  
> The perfect storm of haunting and terrifying.

JOHN

The Island, ME

February 24th, 2288

The road down the mountain was lit only by moonlight, night blooming flora and pockets of luminescent radiation. A chill hugged the mountainside, making Danse shiver while the radioactive fog kept John warm. The vapor made him feel like he was plugged into a battery, live currents shooting down his limbs and crackling within his skull. Rather than pain, he felt as if we were on too much Psycho and caffeine, making his muscles twitch and his brain fire rapidly. It was like being caught that pre-orgasmic moment of ecstasy forever. Pleasurable as that was, Danse’s sideways looks were beginning to wear on him.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Danse asked for the seventh time.

“Never fuckin’ better.” As they picked their way over a fallen tree, he sighed and shuttered. “You should feel it, Dan. Goddamn amazing.”

“I can only pray that I won’t need your assistance any time soon.”

_Killjoy._ Of course humans – or synths – wouldn’t be able to appreciate this. Word got out about this place and he could kiss all the ghoul residents from Goodneighbor goodbye.

They hit a patch of trail where the fog cleared and John’s euphoria ended abruptly. “Damn.” Head clearing, he recalled his previous thought about his citizens and remarked, “No ghouls here. Not a one. Ya catch that?”

Danse nodded, skimming the trees. “I’d noticed.” He halted and John stopped with him. “Have you seen the pelts?” he asked, nose wrinkling as if he’d had an unsettling thought.

“What?” He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“Longfellow mentioned something happening to the ghouls on the island. And I’ve been noticing things…” He slid his hands back and forth over his rifle. “There are plenty of skins all over the island, both in Far Harbor and Acadia. The harbormen. They all wore a leather of the same tone and texture…Do you think…?”

The shudder that ran through John was nowhere as pleasant as the one caused by the fog. “Are you sayin’...fuckin’ _ghoulskin_?”

“Yes.”

What Danse was insinuating was horrifying on a level that John almost couldn’t comprehend. His heart lodged in his throat and, for a few moments, couldn’t breathe. With the thick cover of fog gone, the chill of the night began to eat at him. He must have looked as bad as he felt, for Danse grabbed at his arm to steady him. “Tryin’ to think of something worse than this.” John paused, and then shook his head. “Nope. Can’t.”

_What the hell? What the goddamned hell had happened here?_

He opened his mouth to shout this when a hail of gunfire cut across the road, dinging the asphalt. Danse grabbed John by the back of his jacket and hauled him off the path. They both hit the dirt by the side of the road and scrabbled down the embankment, bullets flying overhead.  Something long and metal thunked deeply against a tree. A harpoon clattered to the ground. “Seriously?” John asked, pulling himself along with his elbows.

“Quiet,” Danse warned, pushing himself up into a crouch. He took hold of John’s wrist. “Stay close.”

Sticking side by side, they ran through the undergrowth, ducking under trees and scrambling over boulders, snapping twigs as they fled.

No good. Men were shouting now, voices drawing ever nearer, giving orders to split up and cut them off. Shadows were bobbing ahead.

Danse threw himself to one side, driving John onto a fishing boat, grounded in the middle of nowhere, without a single body of water in sight. They pressed against the narrow shelter of the cockpit, lingering in silence as their pursuers ran past. Danse’s tight hold on his wrist was being to steal into a painful realm. “Gonna need that arm back.” His dark eyes troubled, Danse released him.

They hunkered in the helm as even more men crashed through the undergrowth.

“What’d you find?” one of the newcomers asked.

“One of the fresh ones,” was the reply. “All that pumpin’ blood’ll lube the knives really good. Skin’ll slide off easier than with those withered rotters.”

John trembled. He actually shook, and was ashamed of it.

_Trappers?_ Danse mouthed.

Shrugging, John shook his head. _Maybe?_

“Where’d they go?”

“You check the boat?”

“Shit,” Danse hissed in a rare curse. He tapped John’s shoulder. “John, listen,” he whispered, steel authority in his voice. “I’ll lead them off. You head back to Acadia.”

Before he could protest, Danse had sprung from the cockpit and was over the side of the boat, firing warning shots into the air. In that instant of confusion, John slid across the deck and over the opposite side.

“Ain’t gotta be like this, friend,” one of the men shouted. “We just want the rotter.”

“Plenty of meat on that one,” another man called.  “A good catch. Don’t use the shotguns on ‘im; too many pellets to pick out.”

Sure sounded like trappers. John eased around the hull until he saw them. They seemed to only flank one side of the boat. Eight. Possibly a dozen. One waved to the ridge above them.

“Get down here. Cut ‘im off!”

John jerked his head up. Maybe fifteen more trappers disappeared from the crest, all making their way down to join the search for Danse, who was long out of sight. Impossible odds, even for a former paladin.  His breaths became shallow.

He had done nothing when Mallory was killed, nothing when he had lost Garrett or West, nothing for Eliza or for Parker, as he lay dying in the streets of Goodneighbor. For Danse, he threw himself from concealment, firing rounds as fast as he could load them in arcs of bullets and plasma.

More stumbling than running, he took off down a levee opposite of Danse’s direction, tumbling over rocks and dead plants, stones clattering in his wake, as warning shots grew loud in his ears. He took a turn so sharp that he lost his footing, sending him into a roll down the remainder of the grade. For a few instants, all he could see were alternating flashes of dark sky and dirt as he tumbled, sure to keep a hold on his weapons. He landed gruffly at the bottom of the embankment, slightly battered, pushing up and clambering to his feet, sprinting as hard as he could. It felt as if acid burned in his veins instead of rushing blood, his lungs fit to burst. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder – sure enough, over half of the posse had abandoned the others to pursue him.

Drawing them away, he charged into a tepid lake containing hard fallout, several striped barrels floating in clusters along the surface. The water was a deep shade of goldenrod, with tendrils of acrid vapor rising out of it. The intense radiation prickled at his legs through his pants. He didn’t know where he was going, just putting as much distance between the pursuing trappers and Danse as possible. None followed him directly into the lake, but the trappers continued to run alongside of it, sending flying bullets to make water spray upwards in small bursts as they struck too close to him. There was no cover. His pipe pistol was struck and exploded into a dozen pieces, scorching his hand.

There were a few lights up ahead; candles, glowing bottles held aloft by long poles, and flora that emitted a bioluminescence. Pennants were strung nearby, sporting blobby-looking sunbursts of black ink. Slogging through the bog, John changed direction, heading for the remnants of an old dock. Heaving himself out of the irradiated swamp, he stumbled over the bones of some long dead creature and toppled to the ground, the impact sending his plasma pistol sliding out of reach.

He had only an instant to panic before two trappers flew at him from the sides and seized his jacket at the wrists. Another struck an instant later, grabbing him around the knees. Together, they easily lifted the ghoul off the ground. John felt a lurch as they started to drag him off the path into the dense growth of tree and brush. He had no doubt that these men would end his life tonight. Adrenaline soared through his body, making his heart pound and his head light. His lithe body twisted in the air, in what he knew was a vain struggle to free himself. He managed to kick at the trapper holding his legs. The man stumbled backwards, releasing his hold on John and landing on his backside, allowing for John’s feet to thud to the ground. He battled to use his weight to wrench himself loose from the trappers that held his arms. The grimly grinning men only smiled, tightened their grip on his wrists and yanked. John fought back best as he could. Resisting any kind of compliance, he refused to even walk – an act which had back-fired when the trappers continued to drag him over the withered landscape. Several more men splashed into the marsh, hands reaching out for him.

He had never been truly in fear of losing his life before. It wasn’t his death that frightened him, but rather knowing what his foes had in store for him beforehand.

The ground itself quaked and the trappers drew to a stop. A vague bellow increased in volume as the swamp itself seemed to bulge upwards. Something massive rose from the lake, water cascading off of it, towering over the entire collection of trappers.

“Crawler!” a trapper shouted, fear clearly rooted in his shriek.  

When its wedge-shaped head swiveled in their direction, John was almost entirely forgotten. With surprising agility, the crawler scampered over the shoals, giving a sinister screech. It landed amongst the cluster of trappers, jarring the earth. Only the two trappers holding John seemed to remember him; they hit the dirt with him trapped between them. Above, the crawler teared trappers apart in showers of gore and entrails, stabbing at them with a pointed head. Its many legs skittered over the ground, narrowly pulverizing John and the trappers that held him as it narrowly missed them.

Planting his knees, John gritted his teeth, arched his back and ducked his head, working his shoulders until he slid his emaciated body out of his leather jacket, freeing himself, leaving the trappers to clutch at the empty sleeves. He felt backwards with a plop, radioactive sludge from the shoreline sticking to his white tee, and dove for his plasma pistol.

One of the trappers tackled him, grabbing him by the flag, pulling him off his feet. They both fought for the pistol, the trapper snatching it away. John rocked to one side, pulling the knife from his boot. The second trapper struck him, and his knife went spinning into the muck. Defenseless, he shoved himself to his feet and ran towards inland, the crawler roaring from above.

John hadn’t made it more than a few feet when a bolt of green energy struck him in the side of his face, causing him to cry out in surprise. For a split second his nerves stood on end.  The force of the strike spun him off course and he staggered to a stop, ducking and rolling under the safety of an uprooted stump. From out of one eye the world shimmered and pulsed, the terrain altering, turning smoky and diffused before solidifying again. Gingerly, he ran his fingers over his face. Drawing the hand back, his palm seemed to glow for a moment before returning to normal.

A fleet of Children of Atom descended on the bog crawling down a ridge from both sides. “Preserve the Spring!” he heard them cry. Barrages of gamma bursts were being unleashed on both the crawler and the trappers. The surviving trappers fired back. Bullets, harpoons and gamma blasts flew as the crawler roared. This had to be the single strangest battle John had ever been a part of. It was hell and chaos; no wonder he had been struck. The zealots weren’t targeting him, but he was in their way.

He had to dive out of hiding when the crawler’s fins slammed into his stump, obliterating it. His brief reprieve seemed to be over as one of the trapper that had restrained him sprung up to fire at him. John dodged and, still caught in the crossfire, he was hit again by a gamma shot. He had never been so thankful to have been a ghoul, as the radiation would have cooked him otherwise. In a moment of fight or flight, adrenaline surged and he felt the rads burning through him. A jade glow slid down his bare arm, collecting in his palm, ending in an accumulation of emerald smoke that rose from the tips of his fingers. As the trapper prepared to fire again, he did what came naturally to him. John had been a man from Diamond City; he compressed the energy in his hand, squeezing it into a mass. He wound up and pitched, the ball of rads arcing from an overhand throw, like he was tossing a baseball.

Or a Reaver from the Capital, hurling its radioactive gore.

The sphere struck the trapper in the face, and he clutched at his eyes, screaming as the concentrated radiation ate through his skin. The second trapper, the one that had taken his pistol, saw it and ran.

John froze, astounded, terrified, hand still raised.

Do it again. He had to do it again.

He ran into full view, drawing fire, ducking bullets, but welcoming the gamma rays. Rather than making it happen, he let it. Radiation channeled down his arms with the pull of gravity. This time, he tossed two in a row, one from each hand. The small, neon orbs felled two different trappers, hitting them in the chests and sending them sprawling into a pond surrounded by candlelight. John was filled with a giddy sense of wonder. He laughed, amazed, hands outstretched, watching his victims bob in the water.

Behind him, the crawler gave a pitiful cry. He turned in time to watch it wilt towards him, its heavy body knocking into him such force that he was knocked backwards into the pond, the beast landing on top of him, pinning him down under murky water. Suddenly encased in the radioactive spring, he panicked, struggling against the mass of the dying monster submerging him, fighting to reach air.

_You’ll drown,_ Mama Murphy’s warning rang clear as dark spots began to consume his vision.

He had come all the way to Maine just to screw Danse once before being drowned in a pond, crushed by a swamp monster.

How humiliating.


	9. Variations on the Same Tune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 9: [Wrecking Ball (Violin Cover by Robert Mendoza)](https://youtu.be/x_k8SmESeUY/)

DANSE

Chesapeake Bay, MD

June 24th, 2279

_Invictus_ ’ shadow seemed very small as it passed over the ocean waves. It was too easy to allow the steady thumping of the vertibird’s propellers lull someone into a trance and Danse found himself shaking his head to clear it.

John had not responded to his previous three messages. He had considered sending a forth, but refrained. Whatever they had, it appeared to be over. His leave came and went, spending it wandering the Washington Mall alone, slaughtering lesser creatures not worth mentioning in reports. A numb sense of detachment had taken root inside of him. That feeling was nothing new – he was used to separating himself from his emotions.

“Fifteen-hundred meters out,” the lancer announced over the cockpit speakers.

Danse slid one metal-sheathed hand through a grip in the cabin and leaned out. The rush of wind made his hood feel cold against his ears, the roar of air deafening.

Thick charcoal smoke spilled from an oil tanker listing in the distance. On fire and sinking, the tanker was sizable, burning from somewhere within the hold.  A thinner plume of crimson smoke emitted from the stern, although no Brotherhood units could be spotted on deck. Two other ‘birds, _Sparta_ and _The Chancellor,_ approached from the opposite side. 

“No response to hails,” Scribe Klatt-Faust informed him from the cockpit.

Patrols were scattered along the coast from the Carolinas to New Jersey. This part of the country was old – any tech uncovered was bound to be ancient. Despite their training and the decades since the Brotherhood had taken root in the East, units would often find themselves in situations too dire to escape from unassisted, either from enemies or exposure to the harsh Wasteland environment. When word had come of a team in peril, Danse had been one of the first to volunteer manning an extraction. “Where’s the unit?” he asked.

“Visuals impaired. I can’t see anything under this smoke. On deck or inside?” the lancer guessed. She sounded unsure of either. “Sir, I can’t land.”

“Yes, Angeles. I see that.” Danse donned his helmet with his free hand. “Knight Yonomori,” he said, clicking the helmet into place. “Give us a way in.”

“Sir,” the knight’s helmet nodded, and he grabbed a hook from the bulkhead behind them. He flipped a release lever and stamped to the opposite edge of the ‘bird with the hook in his hand, pulling on the winch.

“Steady,” Danse called into the cockpit as _Invictus_ settled into a hover over a patch of clean air and clear views. He gave the knight a thumbs up. 

The knight stepped from the vertibird and fell out of sight, the cable unraveling from its spool, metal hissing against the cabin floor as it scraped by. The blades continued to beat a steady tune.

Tense moments passed.

“Secured,” the knight replied, and Danse reset the lever. “Ready for your command.”

His tightened his grasp on the overhead grip. “Pull it,” Danse instructed the lancer. The vertibird jerked, banking in the other direction and rising in elevation. Danse was tossed back into the cabin as the hatch to a hold went flying off into the bay, yanked free by the ‘bird. “Give me all channels,” he ordered the scribe, who clutched onto his seat despite the two straps restraining him. He threw himself forward, punching buttons and spinning dials. Raising his hand, the scribe gave the signal to go. “All units, this is Paladin Danse in _Invictus_ ,” he said into his headset as Angeles swung his ‘bird back over the freighter. “We’ve secured a way in. Looks like we’re going to have to clear the ship in order to locate the patrol in distress. Armored knights only. Prepare for live flames. Heading down now. Over.” Replies of ‘ _roger_ ’ came from the other vertibirds.

He stepped out into the open air above the ship, plummeting straight down. The rush of freefall ended with an abrupt jar that rattled his teeth. The deck bent and rippled upon his landing. There were additional bangs as three more knights joined him on deck. Knight Yonomori crouched by the open hold. “Looks like a grade A shitstorm in there, Sir.”

Danse acknowledged him with a gesture as he approached. “Let’s get our people out.” He pulled his laser rifle and hopped into the hold. Fire, swirling embers, choking black smoke, green and red flashes of weapons discharge, and screaming greeted him.

Within the tilted insides of the ship, a battle between Gunners and local raiders raged. A few strung out chemheads caught in the midst fired in return, although the accuracy of their aim was far inferior. A number of shanties were perched amidst the shipping containers and stacked barrels, the citizens fleeing the battle to group in clusters at the highest elevation possible. Various banners proclaiming marketplace offerings hung from high in the hold were now riddled with bullet holes or aflame. What had been a floating settlement was now a steel coffin, bullets having knocked holes into the oil barrels and the laser weapons setting the spilling petroleum ablaze. The hull was damaged, allowing seawater to flood the lower compartments. Slick oil on the water’s surface fed the flames, which created a choking smoke that clouded the air.

“Well,” a knight from one of the other ‘birds began, having landed nearby. “At least we’re up against people.” 

Danse took small comfort in that. There was little sport in killing humans. The air shifted and flames leapt to fully engulf him. He put faith in the coating of his armor as he watched an orange blaze lick across his visor. A collection of bullets clanged against his plating in hollow thumps. He bit the inside of his cheek in annoyance. “Stick to the Doctrine. Clear the ship of civilians. And find that patrol.”

“Roger that,” Lancer Angeles said through his speakers. “We’ll have scribes standing by at an extraction point.”

He and the four knights paraded into a maelstrom of bullets and plasma firing from all directions. Red beams of Brotherhood laser weapons cut the aggressors down. He felt exhilarated. This was what he lived for; the battle, the rush, knowing he had the advantage at all times, playing the game he always won. The five of them made short work of the troublemakers.

Signaling to them, he had the knights spilt up, guiding civilians up top for the ‘birds to take to shore and poking into deeper levels, searching for the lost unit. The process took hours, the water level rising and the hold becoming darker with smoke all the while. There came a point where Danse had to make a call. “Anything?” he asked over his headset to anyone who might be listening.

“No, Sir. Civilians have been excised, but there’s no sign of our men,” came the disheartening answer from one of the knights. The others echoed variations on the same tune.

“Take yourselves topside. I’m wrapping this up.” Abandoning the search was heartbreaking. How unfair that the bodies of his Brothers couldn’t even be located.

Getting out of the hold was more difficult than getting in, their heavy metal suits weighing them down. The hooks were lowered again and, one by one, they were winched back up to the ‘birds. They reconvened at a small seaport village by the coastline. Once the vertibirds had all landed, the scribes were able to take stock. The rescued civilians had been relocated to this seaside location and they now resided in hastily erected medical tents and in familial groups around cooking fires, tended to and questioned by the scribes. 

Field Scribe Klatt-Faust appeared, knocking on the back of Danse’s armor to get his attention. “Families and bystanders are all accounted for. Bodies are just raiders, Gunners, and chemheads. One of the local fauna got his hands on a signal grenade. The whole thing was a false alarm. Moron’s being held in the far most medical tent.”

“How many casualties?”

“On our side? None. Eighty survivors pulled from the freighter, as well.”

“Eighty-three,” a second scribe added from nearby. “A damn miracle is what this was.”

Danse nodded vacantly while suppressing the urge to shout in frustration. Treachery had drawn them there, putting his team and two others squadrons at risk. “Suspect is in the far tent?” he repeated, just to make sure. Klatt-Faust pointed rather than answering. “I’ll question him,” Danse promised, grinding his teeth within his helmet, stomping his way past the survivors with more force than necessary.

When he arrived, he knocked the tent flap out of his way, ducking his head to fit his oversized body inside. The interior was dim, sunlight filtering in through the seams in the tent in narrow shafts. On a cot to one side, lay a young woman in Gunner armor. Burns had licked up her face and claimed most of the hair on the side of her scalp. Short ginger hair covered the other side. He couldn’t tell if she was asleep or unconscious. Calmly seated beside her in a metal folding chair was John. Danse was a metal statue, locked in place as he gawked. John, here? That didn’t make any sense. But here he sat, boots up on the Gunner’s gurney, fingers steepled under his chin, bloodied hair curling lightly at his shoulders. His beautiful face had been split open on one side in an arc from forehead to cheek. Despite his shock, seeing John hurt made Danse angry. He strode forward to clasp John’s face in his enlarged metal hand, turning it to inspect the injury.

He knew why John had triggered the signal grenade. The Brotherhood would have to respond, would have to stage a rescue. John had forced their hand and saved eighty-three individuals. Danse had dared him to take a stand and he had. “You…you tricked a Brotherhood battalion into fighting someone else’s battle. What is wrong with you?” he scolded through the speakers of his helmet. “What were you thinking?”

John pulled his face from his grasp, glaring up at him as if Danse were a dangerous stranger. “If you’re gonna put a bullet in my head, get it over with.”

John’s response confused him for a moment. Of course. John had never seen him in his armor. Lifting his hands, Danse pulled his helmet off. Both watched the other and exchanged no words. If John had been expecting someone else, his eyes didn’t betray it. Danse turned his helmet over in his hands. Beyond the tent flap, footsteps faded, voices quieting.

“Was this to get my attention?” Danse asked, keeping his voice low. “Why else would you be in Columbia?” John chewed his lip and his brows met, but he remained mute. “Maybe you didn’t expect me, but you certainly expected a Brotherhood team to come, and I would have heard about it. Those civilians…they had been taken over by raiding parties and Gunner deployments for some time. You knew that. And you had us pull them out. You had us handle it because you weren’t able to do it alone.”

Still, John said nothing. He wore his anger very plainly on his face. Danse understood why. Yes, he had been abrupt with him the last time they had met. Yes, he had given him an unfair challenge. Yes, he had acted in a manner not befitting an adult in a relationship with someone that he cared about. Yes, he knew that it was his actions that had left John hateful and hurting. “John…please…talk to me.”

His fingers remained pressed together, hazel eyes clouded with fury, punishing Danse with silence.

Unable to bear his guilt any longer, Danse’s words gushed out. “I do love you. God…John, I do. But I can’t say it freely. Not yet. I’m sorry that it hurts you, but that admission endangers me; endangers you. The cost is too high. I am fearful of retaliation should we be discovered. I...I cannot bear the thought of making a mark of you. Of bringing hatred down upon both of us. So you will have to forgive me. Please,” he sank to a knee, still towering over John in his chair. “You must forgive me. I have two parallel lives that cannot cross. They _cannot_ intersect. Each destroys the other. I need them to remain separate and I need you to remain safe. Forgive me for not being able to love you in the way that you deserve it or even in the way that I want to. You…you mean too much to me. I’ve already lost someone that I cared for.” He swallowed, pain constricting his chest. “Losing you…I don’t know how I could live through that.”

The crease between John’s eyes vanished. He leaned forward, snagging Danse by the handles on the torso of his armor. Tilting him downwards, John stretched his neck to firmly kiss him on the mouth. The tension between them drained. Danse wanted to grab him, to take him in his arms, but his armor could not allow that type of closeness.

 John released his suit and their lips parted with a soft, wet sound. Danse stood and rotated the helmet in his hands once more. “Are we alright?” he asked, still tentative.

John smiled, settling back in his chair. “See you next furlough.”

Exiting the tent, Danse secured his helmet once more. This would be easier if no one could look him in the eye. He waved Klatt-Faust down, and the man rushed to meet him. “Sir?” the scribe asked. “Have you decided on a course of action?” He jerked a thumb at the medical tent that Danse had just exited.

“Once you’re done here, we’ll head back to D.C.” was the command that Danse gave.

“What ramifications are you suggesting for the offender?”

“None.”

“Sir?” the scribe asked again, dumbfounded. It was not common to let wrongdoings against the Brotherhood go unpunished.

“We took no casualties,” Danse reminded him.

“Sir, we took damage –”

“ _We took no casualties_ ,” Danse reiterated. “In the end, it was all for the best. We followed the Doctrine and that will make Sarah – I mean, Elder Lyons pleased. He won’t try something like that again. Tend to the wound on his face and then release him. That’s an order from your Paladin.”


	10. Pious Aims

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 10: [OneRepublic - Apologize Piano Cover](https://youtu.be/choGZ_Z9VSY/)

NICK

Acadia, ME

February 24th, 2288

Pallid and wraithlike, DiMA resembled a ghost. Maybe he was. Shafts of moonlight cut through the shattered dome above to cast an ethereal aura within the observatory. There was something painfully ironic about two synths being enclosed in a station meant for detecting otherworldly bodies.

“I didn’t want to believe you…about being brothers.” Nick wasn’t used to feeling ashamed. Or confused. As he stood before a synth more damaged than he was, he was unsure of what his next course of action should be. He tugged the brim of his hat down, shielding his eyes with shadows. “I’m…sorry for the way I acted.”

“I’m sure that my account came as quite the shock.” DiMA’s voice was soft and gentle as he eased back into his segmented chair. “No need to apologize.”

Crossing the dais at the center of the observatory, fingers still tracing the brim of his hat, avoiding those dead eyes, Nick said, “I’d…like to start over, if we can.” The interior of Acadia was clean. Too clean for Wasteland standards.

“I would like that, too, Nick.” He looked like a pharaoh, perched on his throne. Given the state of his physique, with exposed wiring and great sections of polymer skin peeled away, Nick wondered if he was even capable of standing for extended periods of time. The bands of steel interweaving over DiMA’s legs seemed to reinforce this idea.

 _Well, score one for me._ _Old but mobile._ Nick gave a grim smirk. “Looks like I’ll have to amend my ‘ _alas, I’m the only prototype synth’_ routine.”

“You and I, brother – we alone know what it’s like.”

Nick wasn’t sold on the _brother_ title. “What what’s like?”

“To be manufactured. Experimented on. To be cast aside.”

“The synths you offer refuge to might argue that.”

DiMA shook as head and looked genuinely saddened. “They exist as lost children. They have either chosen to forget or never know to begin with.” He extended a hand, gesturing off to the shadows of the derelict observatory. “Chase is my only disciple that remembers the Institute.” An intimidating woman emerged from the dark, the tattered remains of a telltale coat hanging from her body.

“A Courser,” Nick snarled. He spun back to DiMA, brushing his coat out of the way, revealing his holstered revolver. “That’s what you’ve been doing with the synths? Handing them right back to the Institute?”

“Come now, Nick. You’re a better detective than to jump halfcocked to conclusions.”

Recalling their entire conversation, Nick warily said, “What gave me away as a dick? Was it the hat? The coat?”

It was unnerving how calmly DiMA smiled at him. There were no ragged edges on DiMA’s skin, only clean lines. His artificial flesh had been peeled away intentionally. “No, Nick. I watched them upload your personality. I’ll admit, the choice of a pre-war detective seemed bizarre. I don’t think that the Institute fully expected any success with your model. Yet here you are, standing before me, reunited at last.”

“Didn’t exactly come for you,” Nick exclaimed gruffly as the Courser took her place at DiMA’s side, one hand drifting too close to her hip.

“No. You came for one of my children.” DiMA placed one elegant hand on the Courser’s arm. Her stern face didn’t change at his touch. “Chase merely handles my security. You’ve certainly noticed that tensions are wound quite tight in Far Harbor.”

“Yeah. Might have caught a stern word or two. Can’t say that I blame them for turning the synths out of the harbor, what with you sitting here looking like Frankenstein’s Monster.”

DiMA laughed but the sound was nowhere near natural. His ‘ _Ha, Ha’_ sounded programmed and distorted, each syllable its own word. “Yes. I can understand the intolerance regarding my appearance. I have undergone many modifications during my time here.”

“Thought you’d had a little work done,” Nick interrupted, a slight smile tugging at his features. Their banter rolled back and forth, as if Nick truly was the impish younger brother and DiMA the more subdued older sibling. “I don’t exactly have a basis of comparison, though.”

“You don’t recall me in the slightest do you?” DiMA asked, more to himself than to Nick. “I admit that upsets me. Have you ever wondered how you escaped the Institute?”

“I ain’t dense. Course I have. Figured that they threw me away when I stopped being useful.”

“No, Nick. I pulled you from the Institute, kicking and screaming. You looked upon me and panicked. I…I had to leave you behind.” It was difficult for DiMA’s face to allow for sorrow. It looked unnatural as his expression pinched. “That was a shameful thing for me to do. It was an act that I regretted every day.”

“If it makes you feel better, this is all news to me.”

“It does…and it doesn’t. But grief and I are old friends.” DiMA stood once more, framed by the cerulean glow of many terminal screens behind him. Chase offered him her arm, which he took, sliding fingers around the crook of her elbow. He raised the other hand in a slow arc, gesturing of the wall of monitors behind him. “You may have wondered what a synth’s soul looks like – this is it. Raw data and information. Catalogs and programs. This is all me, who I am. My attachments and accouterments assist me to compartmentalize learning. Even now I am becoming more than I ever was. Imagine every book ever written, in any language, every guide and recipe for warfare and destruction, every political speech, the teachings of philosophy and religion, all downloaded to a single cortex. I am, for lack of a better designation, a god to synth-kind.”

Was it an option, Nick’s throat would have gone dry. Nothing good could come from an immortal robot with a god complex. His throat still felt scratchy, regardless of salvia or lack thereof. “So, uh, what now? Do the smiting and prophecies come into play? Maybe little, golden Gen-2 idols with posable arms for the kiddies?”

When DiMA shook his head, the vacuum tubes atop his crown caught the moonlight streaming in from the ceiling and refracted it, sending waves of light dancing over the sterile surfaces of the room. “Perhaps I misspoke. The synths that I take in are often hollow vessels, new to this world and innocent of its ways. While I am filled with knowledge, they are empty. It is my duty to protect them, teach them, perhaps because I failed you.”

The argument of a holy man. Terrible things had arisen for pious aims. Although it made little sense, Nick felt guilty. Of what, he wasn’t sure – For not remembering? Not stopping DiMA before this point? For it not being _him_ that stepped up to speak for their race instead? And why couldn’t it have been? Nick had certainly been granted enough time to so.

DiMA rolled over his thoughts of self-berating with more exposition. “Socrates, Aristotle, Matthew, Sartre – they all had a certain... _caution_ to their tales that I will not discard. Acadia and Far Harbor have much in common. Our fear and distrust runs deep, and for good reason. They have done terrible things. And so have I. Should the floodgates open, it will be Acadia that survives. The fog condensers, they are my design, my… _gift_ to the people of Far Harbor.”

“Yeah, a gift with strings, I’ll bet.” Best to grab Kasumi and run. It felt like the entire island was about to combust at any moment. On the lookout for anyone else hidden in the darkness, ready to jump, Nick judged his chances of taking the female Courser down. They weren’t in his favor. No doubt that what she’d be packing something with more heat than his revolver. _Damn._ His only exit was directly behind him. Nick edged back out towards the entry hall. That lynch mob idea was sounding better and better.

“No,” DiMA argued. “It was with the best of intentions that I created them. But should I be challenged, my people threatened, I will do what is necessary. Listen.” Nick complied. A steady rumble was vibrating the building. It was almost unperceivable. “I control the flow of power to the island. Should the need arise, there will be no violence on behalf of Acadia. We will very simply shut that power down, disable the condensers, and let fog take them. A natural course of evolution. We would be unopposed. Darwin would be proud.”

If he shot DiMA in the head, that might cause enough of a commotion for him to make it back to the entry before the Courser riddled him with holes. He may not be granted the change to fire a second bullet. “You’re taking about mass murder. Snuffing out Far Harbor in one go.”

“Far Harbor is inconsequential. I allow them to exist, and so they do. They will wither and die while I remain exactly as I am. No. Not as I am. Better. I may have been intended to fade into obscurity but I will not be buried. I will be remembered, respected, and, when necessary, feared.”

Nick’s back was to the front door, all he would have to do was fire once and throw himself down the corridor. “So why string them along at all?” he asked, as his hand drifted towards his revolver. “I mean, you coulda had the entire island to yourself. Why bother pretending to help?”

“ _I never pretended anything_!” DiMA cried, shifting his shoulders back, looking even larger than before. “I tried to help them! They are not a virtuous community! Snakes and liars, all of them!” He seemed to battle for composure, dropping his heavy head. “Make no mistake; I want no war with Far Harbor. I have built such a fragile house of cards. There are bodies stacked on both sides. Stand with me, brother. You and I can convince them to repent. It’s not too late. They still have the capacity to change their ways.” 

“While you sit here as the proverbial Man on the Mountain? Maybe it’s you that has to change, _brother_ , not them. _One may smile and smile and be a villain._ You ever read Hamlet? That was about a man who refused to make a decision and, subsequently, everyone dies. How many more have gotta lose their lives before you’re satisfied?”

All traces of humanity wiped from DiMA’s face. _“_ You would deny me? How disappointing. I wanted so much for you. ”

“That’s what family does – they let you down.” As Nick’s fingers twitched towards his weapon, the door behind him banged open. Startled, he turned towards the sound. “Danse?” The opportunity lost, Nick swept his hand away from the revolver.

From within the doorway, looking haggard and panicked, dirt caked up to his knees and winded, Danse gasped, “Is he here?”

“What happened?” he asked, his chance to stop DiMA ruined.

“ _John_!” Danse shouted, his eyes wide and petrified. “ _Is he here_?”


	11. Let’s Talk About Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 11: [The Hanging Tree - The Hound + The Fox](https://youtu.be/DdhYfkgx_sE/)

DANSE

Far Harbor, ME

February 24th, 2288

“ _John_!”

Panic had leeched Danse’s lungs, making his shouting hoarse and breathless as he screamed John’s name at the churning fog and treacherous mountains. His pleading cry was swallowed up by the thick foliage of the forest. The stout, black bodies of trees loomed, closing in on the path like sinister gargoyles.

“ _John_!” he yelled again, fighting to be granted any hint of a direction to head in. He had seen John draw fire and split the group of trappers apart. Having lost the few that pursued him, Danse had circled back to the boat and ventured beyond it, only to have a noiseless and still night surround him. Something large and far off had bellowed as he had run past the boat, only to fall silent now that Danse was in a position to track it. The monster’s spooky calls had echoed, and as he passed close to the tail section of a downed aircraft, he doubted that his choice of direction had been correct.

The fight appeared to be over. No gunshots or voices could be heard, only the faint trickle of water as it flowed through the tributaries. John must have been captured. Icicles of horror crackled to life, piercing Danse’s chest from multiple directions. His heart struggled to beat. He pushed himself to keep going, keep looking. Even if John had been taken, he might still be alive. Moving past the airplane wreckage, Danse mowed across narrow streams, stamping through mud and up rocky mounds to find flat earth, Righteous Authority in his hands, searching for any type of trail to guide him. Instead of good fortune he found chunks of deep fog too dangerous to linger in.

_“John!”_

Any shout in his direction, any burst of gunfire would give him a path to answers. Silence thundered across the landscape. Not for the first time, he longed for his armor, particularly the head lamp and navigational devices.  In distress, his hands tugged at his hair as he spun in a circle scanning for signs of any type of settlement. The trappers hadn’t dissipated into thin air, they had a base somewhere. Far Harbor knew the island. Acadia knew the island. Danse was at a disparaging disadvantage. Continuing to charge off into the night would ensure that he would never be able to find John.

Numbly, Danse picked a careful way back through the brush of the land, following his own broken path through the damp vegetation. A snapped branch here, a deep footprint there, he had clearly been careless in his flight, terror overriding his own good sense. The stream, the airplane again, the boat. The fog blessedly cleared just long enough for him to spot Acadia’s observatory, perched on the mountaintop. He rummaged in his pack for another tablet of Rad-X, the night chill soaking through his clothing as he made towards the station.

Acadia wasn’t as vacant as before. Several figures stood in the guard shacks and on the roof, dark silhouettes against the silvery haze of fog. He slowed as he approached, and deliberately kept his hands in plain view, shallow but rapid breaths making his chest heave. If working his synth angle would rescue John, a proud synth he would be. But he’d fight them. He’d kill them all if they stood in his way. “Saw him on the monitors,” someone called. “He’s good.” Someone – some synth – waved him by. Danse broke into a frantic charge and ascended the steps without incident. He yanked the door open and spotted Nick almost instantly.   

“Danse?” the old synth asked, his body language tense.

“Is he here?”

“What happened?” Nick looked as if Danse had stolen something important from him

“ _John_!” Danse shouted. “Is he here?” His eyes scanned the foyer, moving past Nick and into the enclosure of the dome, brushing over the two figures that stood under it. The other Gen-2, he knew of. But the second…

Any thoughts of John drained. Reaching back, he wrenched his rifle up to eye level. “Danse, hold it!” Nick ordered. The courser reached for her weapon, pulling a 10mm handgun. Seeing a courser with a ballistic firearm was peculiar, but she handled it naturally. “Lower your arms, comrade,” she instructed, tone flat. 

A courser. Did this goddamned island know no end to its surprises? His arms burned with a desire to blast her full of holes. DiMA stepped in front of her at the time that Nick put himself in front of Danse. “Stop,” the detective ordered Danse. “This isn’t how we get out of this.”

“Chase,” DiMA addressed the courser, placating her with an open palm. “Set the example.” Her hands tightened on her weapon before lowering it. Danse’s aim held steady. Cold sweat rolled down his neck. Every instinct told him to shoot.

“Danse,” Nick urged, hissing at him through gritted teeth. “This place is a powder keg. Don’t toss the match.”

His chest expanded and contracted jaggedly. This moment could not be all about his cravings. John needed him. The lost girl, Kasumi needed him. Judging by the desperation in his eyes, Nick needed him. Danse lowered his weapon, maintaining a firm grip. “You must understand,” he called to both DiMA and the courser. “I was with the Brotherhood. I was…programmed by the Institute to follow their orders. Standing down…this goes against everything I feel to be right.”

“The twisted nature of the Institute knows no bounds,” DiMA said, as the courser put her weapon away. “Your reaction to Chase’s presence was understandable. But we accept all synths here, be they agents of the Institute…or the Brotherhood of Steel.”

Danse’s shoulders loosened and his let his weapon drop to sway against his side, still supported by the strap. He wouldn’t be turned away. His flight across the island still burned bright in his mind. “Trappers, he said, taking Nick by the arms. “They took John.”

“What? Why?” Nick looked baffled.

He released the synth to grab one of the rolled pelts still stacked against a wall. “This!” he said, shaking it in full view of everyone watching. The ribbed texture felt too much like John’s. He fixed furious eyes on DiMA as he threw the hide back into the corner. “You engage in the exchange of ghoulskin! Did you tip them off that another one was here? Is the entire island under your control?”

At the edge of his vision, Nick stooped to inspect the hide. “That ain’t…well, damn.” He stood. Now they both faced DiMA. “Care to explain, hermano?” 

Seeming ashamed, DiMA set his mouth and glanced away. He rotated his palms together, the fingertips brushing. “We…we get so many new members with nothing to their name. I have to provide materials for them somehow…” He looked back at them, thinly veiled disdain on his face. “Our supplies come from Far Harbor. You will find the treachery there, not here. True, we do indeed purchase… _questionable_ items…but the offerings on the island are few.”

“Then you condone murder,” Danse spat, before he could stop himself. Murder. Using the deaths of ghouls to improve a human quality of life. Once, he would have commended Far Harbor’s ingenuity. Now, it just made him sick. His head pounded and his chest felt tight, still sucking in anxious gulps of air.

“No!” DiMA argued, a dangerous mask overtaking his features, blanketing it in fury. “I wouldn’t…I don’t….” He paused, rolling his shoulders back and, just as suddenly, his face returned to its placid expression “Of course we will assist you in any way possible. Chase,” he turned to the courser. “Have Faraday review the monitors from the other locations. Tell him to look for refuge sites that any bands of trappers might fall back to. Compile a list and return.”

“As you say,” she said, bowing her head a little too low for common courtesy. She disappeared through a doorway, but not before passing too close to Danse for his liking. Before his sneer could fully form, she was gone.

“You look like hell,” Nick told him, and Danse had to agree. That was certainly how he felt. “I swear, one of you is always in trouble. Take a few minutes to get yourself together,” the old synth advised, before glaring back at the other one. “DiMA and I need to discuss the finer points of conducting trade without condoning slaughter.”

Grateful to be dismissed, Danse left Nick to stalk off towards DiMA as he backed into a concrete stairwell. Pressure still building in his chest, he took flight after flight down, putting distance between them before the dam broke. When he ran out of stairs, he flung both his pack and his rifle down, sitting heavily on the bottommost step. His hands shook as he pressed them to his forehead. One coughing sob escaped.

Undiscourageable John, chasing him everywhere. Not content to leave him in Sanctuary, or Rivet City, or Bravo, or Hartford. All Danse had to offer him was constant danger, disagreements, and denial. He wasn’t sure which one of them was to blame for this situation.

“Are you alright?” someone asked from within the stairwell with him.

Peeling his hands away from his face, he answered, “No. I most certainly am not.” He wanted to stew in his own self-loathing, an art which he had been perfecting for weeks, and not be bothered.

His inquisitor was a young woman wearing a drab mechanic’s jumpsuit in a moss green hue. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she offered with a concerned expression. As if he wanted help from some synth. He caught that thought too late and felt guilty. For all he had learned, sometimes he hadn’t learned anything.

“I…I don’t think it matters anymore,” was his honest answer. John had to be dead by now, he had to be. If there had been a chance of a rescue, the window had closed. He fought a trembling in his jaw.

She sat next to him anyway. For the longest time, they didn’t say anything. “Are you new here?” she finally asked, once their silence had turned oppressive.

“I…Yes. I am.” That was true, too. Not that he’d be staying. He felt fit to sink the island to the bottom of the sea.

“I see it in your eyes,” she said. “Being lost. You’re one of them, just like me.”

Danse gave a low, bitter laugh. “ _Lost_ ,” he repeated, bracing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. “I…I had always felt… _set apart_ from my peers. I had assumed that it was because I was…because of my preferences. Only now do I realize that it was my synth brain warning me that I was different.”

She nodded, hands tucked between her knees. With her back bowed she seemed tiny in comparison to him. “I understand. I abandoned my old life. And now, we’re alone.”

“No,” Danse disagreed, shaking his head negative. “I wasn’t alone. I had people that cared for me, stood up for me, that were willing to risk everything to keep me with them. They didn’t care that I was designed for infiltration and sabotage. They loved me. _He_ loved me.”

“The one you lost?” She blinked and look away from him. “I’m sorry. Acadia is wired for sound distribution from the observatory. When DiMA talks, he likes us to listen. I maintain the speaker systems down here.”

“Yes,” he answered her. “The very same.” He felt light-headed. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that DiMA wanted to pipe his control through his base. Maxson had done the very same thing; when he spoke, his subordinates were meant to pay attention. “I…feel that the cruelest part of this is that I will never see him again. Not in this life, nor beyond.”

“What do you mean?”

They wouldn’t be reunited. He had abandoned all thoughts of God or salvation once learning of his true identity. Danse’s soul didn’t exist. He walked, he talked, he felt, but he wasn’t truly alive. When he died, only the blackness of oblivion waited for him, no reward, no grand ascension, no apologizing to the men who had served under him and lost their lives, and no ludicrous hopes of seeing John or Cutler ever again. “I’m a machine. When I die, it will be like unplugging a hot plate. No light, no warmth, just finality.”

It took her a moment to respond. “Do you really believe that?”

Danse shook his head when what he really wanted to do was put his fist through the wall. “What choice do I have? My faith has been taken from me.”

Her small hand squeezed his shoulder. As he looked at her, her bright smile cut a path through his hopelessness. “That’s the thing about faith,” she said. “It doesn’t have to make sense. It’s just something you feel because you have to. Because it keeps you going. Gives you hope. If you can’t have that…then what’s the point, you know?”

Her words had a calming effect on him. His breathing had steadied and the tension in his back lessened. He studied her as if seeing her for the first time. She had almond-shaped eyes, chin length black hair, and a youthful, if naïve, disposition.

Taking a chance, he asked, “Are you Kasumi?”

She only looked flustered for a moment. “Yeah, that’s me.”

After all they had gone through, Kasumi was the one to have found _him_. “I was sent here to find you. Your parents love you, Kasumi. They are quite distraught.”

Kasumi smiled sadly and let go of his shoulder. She held her hands in her lap and looked small again. “They don’t understand. I’ve been lying to them this whole time, making them believe that I was really their daughter…”

“It’s not lying if you didn’t know.”

“Did you know?” she asked him. Her eyes looked the slightest bit fretful.

“I…No.” The memory of his flight from the Glowing Sea came back to him. “I was discovered. I had to run, leaving everything I knew behind.”

“I’m…I’m so sorry.” She blinked and glanced away. “That sounds terrible.”

Another person telling him that they were sorry. _You’re going to get tired of hearing people say that,_ Harkness had warned in Rivet City. “It could have been,” he responded. “John, he…he came after me, kept me safe. And I repaid him by trying to take my own life.”

“Is he the one you’re looking for?”

“He is…he…was.” Another moment of uncomfortable silence. “Now, I…I don’t know what to do…”

“That’s how many find themselves here,” Kasumi explained. “Lost without purpose. But I chose this. I’m meant to be here. I’m going to do great things for Acadia, for the whole island. I can change everything.”

“I hope you’re right. This Godforsaken place needs all the help it can get.”

She stood up and offered him a hand. He didn’t take it. “It’s not too late, you know,” she said, an encouraging smile playing at her lips. “Don’t lose hope. No telling what happened out there tonight. Try and get a few hours of sleep. I’ll help you look for your friend once it’s light out.”

“I…thank you.” He accepted her outstretched hand and allowed her to help pull him to his feet.

“No problem.” She winked at him. “We synths have to stick together.”


	12. Glory Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 12: [Gabrielle Aplin » Space Oddity](https://youtu.be/RlOQfMBPjU8/)

JOHN

Unknown Location

Unknown Time

The crashing surf roared loudly in his ears as it pounded the shoreline. The air smelled of salt and rusted copper. When John opened his eyes he was back in his bed in the room he grew up in. He threw back the quilt that covered him, planted his feet on the tiled floor and padded into the back offices of the pedestal observation tower where his family had made their home, far below the dangers of the crumbling statue above. The executive offices where his parents had lived were lavishly decorated with paintings lifted from the city’s museums, battered and rusted weaponry displayed on the walls, plush rugs underfoot and various ornate items scattered throughout the home. As a child, he had learned to not touch things very fast.

As he walked, a pool of light seemed to follow him leaving the rest of his environment shrouded in darkness. His parents had taken him to a play once – _Henry V_ – and the dancing beam that followed the players on stage was much akin to the pool of stark light that clung to him. He wasn’t sure of what drove him to say it but he called out, “Ma?...Pa?” Of course they weren’t here. Looking down at his hand, he touched their wedding bands, spinning them slightly, gold rings of different widths slipped onto the first two fingers on his left hand. He caught sight of himself in a cracked window. His reflection was younger, barely more than a child, dressed in a battered black suit, and human. Touching his features, they didn’t match what he saw, the hardened skin and puckered whorls still proof of his ghoulishness. The certainty of where and when he was became clear. “I know what day this is,” he said, quiet and breathily.

This was the day that his parents had been buried amongst the trees behind the star-shaped base that occupied Liberty Isle. He panicked, loss washing over him, knowing that everything was going to change, knowing that his brother would be coming to take him away. Knowing that he had to protect himself he pawed at his suit, looking for something that he could use for defense. Nothing. He might as well have been naked. One hand drifted to his hip, the other to the hollow of his throat. Both items gone. Without his keepsakes of Garrett and Danse, he felt as hollow as a shell and crushingly alone.

“Did you lose something?” a voice asked. It had a resonating quality to it, like the words had been recorded on an old, scratched holotape. There was a man in the empty foyer with him. The figure was blurry, a distorted haze shimmering at the edges of its nearly solid black form. The man had no face.

He supposed that he should have been startled by the other being’s presence…but hadn’t he always been here? In the dark, in the quiet moments when no one was watching, just out of reach? “Had things that were important to me,” John said, hand knotting at his throat, regardless of the empty space there. “Guess they didn’t make the trip.”

“This is only the first fork in your road,” the foggy figure pointed out, a hint of amusement playing in his voice. “Plenty of time for loss along the way.”

A hand grasping his sleeve turned him. “ _John_! Everyone is waiting for you!” Guy spat as he pulled him down a twisting staircase of metal and concrete. With only the pool of light to guide him, the stairs were precarious. “Why do I have to keep cleaning up your messes?” Despite his age, time had not been kind to his brother. He was wider around the middle than their father had ever been and his hairline well past his crown. Disappointment and disgust soared as John looked at him. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand being in his brother’s presence.

“You set the example; I look to you.”  John wrenched his arm away and almost fell backwards. For a moment, they were themselves again, John in gnarled skin and Guy with his gray mustache. “We ain’t the same. My house isn’t made outta glass and I might turn to salt but at least I know where I came from!”

“I am not my brother’s keeper,” Guy insisted, several steps down from where John stood.

“And you won’t lead me into the field.”

Moving swiftly for someone his size, Guy wielded a length of splintered femur bone, lunging the point at John’s heart. The stairs disintegrated into microscopic ash, causing John to drop downwards through empty space…

…and be deposited onto the streets of New New York. The smell gave it away – oil, trash, burning gas, charred steel buildings and history. He had sprawled as he landed, pavement scraping the palms of his smooth-skinned hands. Gasping, he pushed himself to his feet. “What the hell happened?”

“Oh, that?” The being of fog was right there with him. “That was just a metaphor. It’s not important.”

“That was different.”

“Sure was. It’s all Biblical, or maybe Greek – tragic-like and lightning bolts. Don’t read too far into it. The text rarely contains additional subtext.” 

He and Guy had never come to blows before, remaining coolly indifferent to one another. But that was before John had left home to search for his teenage girlfriend in the hellish environment of Manhattan and spent seven years on the road. Even standing here now, beneath rectangular screens of broken glass and exposed wires and long-dark marquees towering above the sidewalks, Times Square felt alien and hostile. The city looked grim, devoid of color or people, indirect sunlight barely cresting the giant buildings to cast the streets in shades of gray. The spotlight was gone, streets illuminated by daylight filtered through smog, floating ash, and the subtle green hue of radiation clinging to the metropolis. The buildings shimmered just out of focus, like a highway mirage on a hot day. That terrifying memory of being by himself in the city began to claw at him. “I don’t belong here.”

“No,” the fog agreed, “you don’t.” The specter gestured at him, extending a finger. “You’ve got something on you.”

John followed the fog’s gesture, looking down at himself. Blood speckled his white shirt, and he patted himself down, looking for injuries, before remembering that the splatter had come from a raider he had killed, the first human life he had taken. Wisps of his blonde hair blew into his face as he continued to stand immobile in the road like a moron. A strong, burly person collided into him, jerking on the back of his shirt and pulling him into a run. Mallory yelled, “Stop being useless! Get to the harbor!” Taller and fitter than John, his friend took the lead as they darted around piles of rubble and jumped steel support beams that lie at perilous angles in the street.

“ _Mal, stop_! _Wait!”_ John’s shouts emerged as whispers, too soft to carry. They were heading south, into the smoky green haze that hung over Downtown. “ _I know how this ends_!”

An explosion of bullets tore chucks out of the pavement between them. They dove to opposite sides of the street. John, with his own brand of luck, fell through an open grate in the sidewalk, landing in a pile of trash at the bottom. He righted himself and pressed his back into a corner, seeing concrete walls and a square of colorless open sky above. Gunfire faded and John held his breath through the short silence that followed.

“Puny human gone,” a mutant grumbled. “Big one make good eats.”

“ _No_!” he heard Mallory cry. “ _No! John! John, help! Please_!” The brother of his girlfriend – his dead girlfriend, John had to remind himself – kept shrieking his name in a breathless, terrified manner. His hand fell to the weapon he carried, a converted blunderbuss, but he lay still as the dead in his hole. Revealing his location would only end in both of them being killed. From beyond the hatch above Mal’s screams, accompanied by the wet sound of tearing flesh and crack of bone went on forever as John waited for both safety and night to make his escape.

His head felt heavy and John reached up to feel the firm edges of his tricorn perched atop his crown. He caught sight of crimson sleeves and scarred hands. “This isn’t real,” John said, pulling himself out of the scene, grounding his mind against illusion.

The man of fog was in the hole with him. “No,” he said. “It’s not.”

“You’re no goddamn help at all,” John sneered. In a wave of injustice and rage, he threw himself at the fogman…

…and barreled into Vic, knocking him onto the balcony of the State House. Having been disarmed in the battle, they both grappled on the terrace, John’s newfound ghoul strength barely matching the power behind Vic’s blows. They both smelled of gunpowder and cigarettes. Shots were going off in all directions, the steady whir of Ashmaker making certain that anyone who made it out of the front door was cut down. Overpowered, Vic had him bent backwards over the railing, either prepared to break his spine or upheave him to drop headfirst onto the stone street below, just like he had done to Kent’s brother. Lank black hair fell into Vic’s Psycho-mad eyes and he delivered a blow to John’s face that would have broken his nose if he had any remaining cartilage there.

Grasping for anything he could find, John’s hand tangled in a cord that strung a flurry of red, white and blue pennants across the balcony’s banister. Sliding out of Vic’s reach, John ripped the cord loose and rolled across the balcony floor, winding the length of it up as he tumbled. “Finn!” John shouted, coat swinging as he twirled about Vic, throwing the cord around his neck as fat fingers closed over John’s throat. They both struggled to strangle the other, John winding the cord again and again rather than try to push Vic off. Reliable Finn appeared, knocking a shoulder into Vic, causing him to release his hold on John. Coughing, John choked out, “Over!” Finn looked at him, then back at Vic. Both he and John dove, taking Vic by one leg and hoisting him over the side of the balcony. The portly mobster dropped, the snapping sound of his neck satisfying against the silence of spent gunfire. John puffed, watching him swing, ocean waves crashing beneath the balcony, the smell of salt air mingling with gunpowder. Lifting his head to Finn, he asked, “You got ‘em, right? It’s done?”

Standing on the terrace before a gathering crowd of people, he felt two impacts strike his torso, knocking him back several steps. He didn’t feel any pain. In a cold panic, he parted his ruffled shirt down the middle.  There were two holes in his chest, weeping blood. Shaking his head, he said, “This never happened…”

The man of fog looked over the railing at Vic slowly rotating on his noose. “Didn’t it? Hmm. Maybe I got the dates wrong.”

John closed his shirt, irritation growing. He had endured just about that all he could. “Look, don’t you have someplace to be?” he asked the figure.

“Not immediately, no,” the fog answered, still glancing over the edge. “What do you want, John?” it asked. “Our lives aren’t ours to waste. We were made different – _special_ – in order to help others. It’s not a gift, it’s a responsibility.”

All of the images, the places he had seen, he still wasn’t sure why he was reliving these instances. “Is this a revelation?” he questioned, wondering how he could possibly interrogate a non-corporeal form.

“Did you reach some grand epiphany just now?” was the pert answer it responded with.

“Not particularly,” John answered truthfully.

“Then, no.”

He was walking. He wasn’t sure why he was walking but travel he did. It was sunny and the transition between the dimness of Goodneighbor to here left him blinking. Nate handed him a Nuka as they tramped by Red Rocket on the way to Sanctuary. Half the Nukas in Nate’s pack were always ice cold. “I have a name,” John said as he cracked the cap. Nate raised a brow at him. “I have a life,” John continued. He didn’t drink his Cola. The liquid inside the bottle flared a brilliant, blinding green so bright that he had to look away. When the light faded the bottle was filled with sand, which he poured out before discarding the bottle. “I have friends and a crowd of people who love me. I can only feel so bad that you don’t have any of that. You’re just starting out. The rest of us – we’ve been here a long time. And I’m fine. I’ve got everyone in my corner now.”

Fog clung to Nate, enshrouding him in mist until he had been fully absorbed. The man of fog walked beside him now, vaguely echoing Nate’s form and gear. Instead of the _111_ on his back, the number _13_ stood out in golden metallic foil. “And where did it get you?” the Nate-fog asked as they crossed the bridge. “It’s coming for you. Can’t you feel it?”

John could. There was a thunderstorm on the way. He could smell it. It sent shivers down his spine. But the storm wasn’t in the air; it was inside of him. “It was nothing I did. This ain’t my game to win. Hell, I’m not even a player. This would have happened one way or another.”

“You don’t know that,” John argued.

“ _You_ don’t know that,” the fog countered.

A Brahmin mooed from somewhere down the street. Clad in his armor, Danse stepped into the road, looking just as cold and callous as he had been in Harford. It was as if no time had passed. Both of them looked away before their eyes could meet. How rude for him to show up here. Nate was an asshole for bringing both of them to the same location. But how could he have known?

The fog sighed and handed its ethereal pack off to Codsworth. “It doesn’t matter. We’re still in the first act – counting down to midnight. Miles to go before the glow. You’ll have your moment. Then it’ll be time to take your bow and get off the stage. This isn’t really your story, anyway.”

A lifetime of Mentats wouldn’t unravel these riddles. He was frustrated and itched for a cigarette. “Ya know, this is getting depressing. You should go.”

A sense of sadness came from the fog. With it came a blanket of darkness, dampening John’s senses. “Are you really ready for that?”

Somewhere in the midst of pressing haze and confusion, John knew the answer. “Yes.”

Black lessened to gray.

A numbing cloud lifted from his perception. The disembodied feeling of floating was gradually being replaced by the solid sensation of cold steel beneath him. The faint flicker of flame tickled through his eyelids.

He opened his eyes to the rectangular patterns of ceiling panels inlayed above his head, a handbreadth away from his face. Firelight and metal walls slid in and out of focus. On his back, he felt like an offering being laid out on a steel table. John moved his limbs curiously, half-expecting to be tied down, restrained, something. Too close to the ceiling, it seemed as if he was resting on top bunk within cramped sleeping quarters. Where was Danse? Why was he here alone? His dream-vision-hallucination had left him reeling, deeply troubled and confused.

Suddenly overcome with a frantic need to escape, John forced himself up and slid from the bunk. He was rewarded for his efforts by droves of dizzying nausea whirling within him. He limbs felt wooden and he tumbled to the ground, knocking a skeleton from the bed beneath him. For a few minutes, he lay wheezing. It felt as if he had done a shitton of chems and remembered none of it. Good times, usually. He was thirsty and almost certainly dehydrated, a dangerous state for a ghoul with already limited amounts of body fluid. Under his bandana, his head pounded. When he was able to work up enough drive, he hoisted himself up. Once steadied, he gave the chamber a second glance. Rows and rows of human remains lay on adjoining bunks stretching across the entire room, lit in partial illumination by candlelight, the tapers jammed into the tops of skulls or spent fusion cores, and glowing pots of ooze. A tomb. He had been placed inside of a crypt. _Goddamn creepy_. He had nothing with him but his clothes – the leather pants and boots, his flag, his rings, and the white undershirt than he had worn underneath his long-gone jacket. He craned his neck and swiveling his head, searching. Where there was a way in there would be –

_There._

He staggered to a hatch, still wobbly, cranking the wheel to force it open. _Fuck me._ Was he underwater? No ocean water rushed in to drown him as the door opened. _In the bowels of a vessel then._

Off-balance and lightheaded, he dragged himself up the torch-lit stairways, sure to keep one hand on the wall should he stumble. As hid empty belly rumbled, he shuffled by an enormous chugging generator. Whatever he was trapped in had to be massive, perhaps a ship like Rivet City. He hadn’t seen one, but who was to say what the fog had been concealing. Dangling bulbs filled of that same sickly yellow ooze were placed just far apart so that the light of one would fade, resulting in several steps in darkness before the glow of the next was visible. Indistinct rhythmic chanting filtered down a stairwell, which he climbed. The stairs ended in a room filled with dark monitors and rusted consoles. Banners sporting emblems of circles within circles vaguely resembling astronomical shapes hung like tapestries within the main cabin of the vessel. The insignias looked ancient, powerful, and to John’s eyes, sufficiently creepy.

The murmuring chant continued and John crept around a corner to find a man seated upon a plush chair, his head bowed in prayer. The man’s mouth moved metrically, reciting some incantation without pause. A headpiece bearing a crudely shaped representation of an atom adorned his head and bands of ink were tattooed over his face. While his facial tattoos weren’t exactly the same as the banners, they at least bore some semblance. To say that his clothes looked shabby would be high praise.

Still feeling unsteady, John leaned heavily against a console, the leather of his pants making a scratching noise where it rubbed over corroded steel.

The chanting ceased and the man turned his head, finding John, who willed himself to be anywhere else. “Ah. Our Champion joins us. Many have wagered that you would not arise.”

John pushed away from the wall, forcing himself straight. “Plenty of people have made that bet...I keep on disappointing.” Nausea threatened again. He closed his eyes and inhaled bracingly, wondering what had happened for him to remain so woozy. A warm buzz rode to air, soothing and smothering at the same time. John could imagine that this was close to what being stuffed in a radioactive barrel might feel like. When he opened his eyes, he noticed that they weren’t alone. The zealot from the side of the road knelt submissively in a corner, bent so far forward that her face almost touched the mat she sat on. “What were you doing?” he asked her.

“Praying for you,” she answered, turning her face to him.

The ghoul’s eyes opened fully as a shiver crawled across his shoulders, causing him to stand a little straighter. “Don’t pray for me. That’s weird and unnecessary.”

“Pay her no mind,” he told John. “You can go,” the man consented, flicking his hand at her in a sharp motion. The woman stood and took one cautious step backwards before darting up a short set of stairs and out of a hatch. It clanged shut behind her. Feeling well enough to not vomit, John studied the man on the throne more intently. An older man, he had an ornery temperament about him, prevalent in the set of his eyes and the lines of his mouth. His irritable eyes raked over John. “I’m told that you have the ability to manipulate the atom, to bend it to your will.”

The balls of rads that he had thrown. John had forgotten all about that. Better to play something that anomalous down. “Yeah, well, that rumor might be slightly exaggerated.”

The man didn’t stand. He looked quite at home to sit perched on the seat of his chair and let everyone else revolve about him. John knew his type. This guy was the boss. “A number of followers witnessed you commit this act. Should that have been the use of parlor tricks I assure you that I will not be amused.”

He wasn’t certain of what this admittance would grant him but he had been caught and might as well ride this out. “I…yeah. Looks like that’s a thing that I do now – slay my enemies with radioactive softballs.”

“My, my. How…impressive.”

“Sure,” John muttered, rubbing his temples through his bandana, his nausea being replaced with a throbbing headache. “I’m amazing. Is this the part where I get showered in panties and confetti? Not that I’d turn that down, but I’ve felt better.”

“You were pulled from one of our holy sites half-drowned and nearly dead. Crawlers have a habit of wandering too close to Atom’s Spring and must be driven off, lest they destroy or pollute it with their nests. Imagine the surprise of my zealots when they found you as well. Placing you nearest to the reactor seemed prudent. The increased radioactivity appears to have healed you.”

“And given me one hell of a rad-induced hangover.” He pitched the space between his brows, just above the bony ridge that led to the hole where his nose had been. “Explains the trippy dream, I guess.”

Something altered the man’s face, expression changing from vague amusement to stunned alarm. “Dream? What did you see?”

“That’s kinda personal, don’tcha think?” Chatting about his life with old men in ships was not a pastime that John was considering.

The man didn’t seem willing to let the subject go. He locked cold eyes onto John, staring up from his seat. “Have you had a revelation?”

“I doubt it,” said John. “That fog-guy and I went over this.”

The man finally stood, no longer looking up at John. “You saw a being of fog?” he asked, eyes sharp.

“Pretty much just said that. Creepy guy with no face took me on a road trip through my memories. Kept talking in riddles.”

“Holy Atom spoke to you?” The man’s voice had a harsh edge to it.

Not that he knew who that was, John answered. “I…guess.” It struck him that he might have only one angle to play and changed his approach. “I mean…Yes! And the guy – Atom – he said he had plans for me. Such plans. Important ones.” He waved a finger at the man. “So you better do what I say and not give me shit.”

The man looked less then intimidated. Instead, an amused smile crept over his face. “I am High Confessor Tektus, high priest to the Church of Atom. You won’t curb me to your whims. One of Atom’s Condemned having a vision is unheard of…then again, so is control over the atom. You are… _inspiring_ to the family. They have taken to you. What is your name, Champion?”  

This was becoming disturbing. John had already parted with too much information. “You ain’t getting my name. And _Champion_? What the hell is that shit? Looks more like I’m a hostage.”

“Not a hostage, more of a…mascot,” Tektus clarified.

“That doesn’t sound any better.”   

Tektus raised one arm, lifting a finger to the hatch that the woman had crawled out of. “Then venture beyond the vessel. See what awaits you.”

John accepted that challenge, turning his back on Tektus and marching for the hatch, metal stairs ringing as he climbed them, happy to be given the freedom to plot his escape. He threw his weight into twisting the wheel over his head and, with a clank and a bang, he tossed the hatch open. Grabbing the lip, he pulled himself up and out of the vessel, drawing his legs close to him and swinging them over the side. As he stood upright, he saw that he was mounted atop a submarine, which rose out of a pool of glowing, radioactive slime. Additional candles, skulls and standards bearing more of those symbolic marks greeted him.

Beyond the vessel, wooden shacks had been erected in levels, a city within the chamber. In every doorway and on each footpath, a Child of Atom had fallen to their knees, hands raised in worship. “Glory be!” they shouted in their reverence. “Glory be to the Son of Atom! Glory be! _Glory be_!”


	13. Clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 13: [Come As You Are - Blakwall](https://youtu.be/glaZY2YcGUw/)

DANSE

The Island, ME

February 25th, 2288

It seemed as though the sun never fully rose over Far Harbor. The morning had dawned overcast and gloomy and the skies had remained foggy and gray. After another night’s sleep lost to preoccupied thought, he and Kasumi had left Acadia to pursue nonexistent leads. Her familiarity with the island had led them to numerous structures and shelters within a few short hours, yet none of them contained any trace of trappers or John. So far, they had found only mutants, mirelurks, and a Children of Atom locale that Kasumi warned him to steer clear of. Leaving John to rot in an unidentified location was an unacceptable conclusion, and his deep-rooted training had instilled that he never leave a man behind, even the bodies of the fallen. By this point, the best Danse could hope for was to recover a corpse, provided it was intact enough to identify. If John had been cut apart, and Danse’s stomach twisted at the thought, they would never be able to identify which wasted ghoul body was his. Feral or not, all ghouls looked alike in death – Danse had stepped over the bodies of both types after many a battle.

“What about his stuff?” Kasumi asked, when he mentioned his fear. “Did he have anything on him that was unique?”

“His rings. A tattered flag. And a plasma pistol.”

Kasumi had been a fast learner as they scoured the island in search. She stuck close to his side, keeping her voice down as she give directions, letting him lead the way despite the island being her home. One of those abysmal Commonwealth pipe rifles hung over her shoulder while an enormous halogen flashlight swung at her hip, the barrel slipped into a hoop on her coveralls. “Sorry that I haven’t been much help,” she whispered, as they took long strides over rocky outcroppings. He hoisted himself up a ledge before extending a hand to pull her up after him. “Trappers tend to wander. Thought we would have gotten lucky by now.”

“It isn’t your fault. I underestimated the size of the island. I’m glad, however, that you chose to assist me.” DiMA hadn’t been pleased to allow her to go, only consenting when Kasumi pointed out that helping synths was one desire that the entire commune had in common, even if that was only to bring Danse peace of mind. “Valentine – the detective – and I assumed that you were being held against your will. DiMA permitting you to join me came as quite a shock.”

“He’s not that bad. He’s brilliant and dedicated. You just don’t know him.”

Danse made a conscious decision to reserve judgement for later. This island was taking a number of his preconceived notions and smashing them apart. He had braced for the worst when telling Kasumi that John was a ghoul, preparing himself for the abhorrence that she was sure to express. Instead, she had nodded and asked how long they had known each other. Her lack of revulsion had been anticlimactic to the explosive scenario that Danse had built up in his head. Perhaps he had misjudged the human capacity for empathy.

A building towered in the distance. For lack of options, Danse went toward it, nudging Kasumi to inform her of the change in direction, a finger to his lips for silence. As he drew nearer to the building, he noted that the structure was unremarkable, all brick and dingy with no signage to be seen. Burned out husks of vehicles littered an otherwise vacant lot. Knowing better than to try the front door, he stuck to the outskirts of the structure, spotting an entryway through an adjoining warehouse. He made sure that his weapon was charged, snapping it upwards before peering through an open doorway, letting the muzzle of his weapon lead. Mounts of feral ghouls lay in heaps where they had fallen, strewn about the ground, the dappled noon sunlight filtering down from a collapsed section of roofing to reflect off of their cold, dead eyes.

Hugging the walls, he made his way around a corner and up a few stairs, jerking a door open and swinging his rifle in first before he entered. “Clear,” he informed Kasumi. He almost fell into the habit of giving field command gestures, stopping himself just before he made them. Kasumi was not under his tutelage, and expecting her to respond to his motions was irrational. “Keep tight. Stay behind me,” he instructed her. A short flight of stairs led down to a blue steel door. On whisper-soft feet, he gingerly treaded down the steps one at a time. Danse prayed that he wasn’t walking into a feral nest and swung the sub-level door open, striding over the threshold. Kasumi glided in after him, gently closing the door. He blinked under the glare of an overhead bulb, the stark white light bright in comparison to the dreary day outside. It smelled musty inside, of stale air and something sickly-sweet and rotten.

Falling into a crouch, he motioned for Kasumi to follow. The single bulb overheard did little to stave off the darkness and a few steps later they found themselves in blackness. “Light,” he ordered, and she fumbled to pull the flashlight out of her jumpsuit loop. When she lit it, the beam of light landed on the backs of boxes stacked nearly to the basement ceiling. Nearby sawhorses were layered with stacks of mounded hides. Closer inspection revealed the telltale patterns and unnatural scarring of ghoulhide. As they moved deeper into the building, additional hide piles were revealed, heaped on the floor. They took a corner and traveled up a low slope to the next level.

The smell hit them before the sights did, a sickly-sweet stink of decomposition supplemented by the sharp aroma of brine. The flashlight beam bobbed and dropped as Kasumi fell back to retch into a corner. A single lantern coupled with the red emergency lights overhead made the scene look like something out of a horror movie that he had once seen playing on an infinite loop at a derelict movie theater in Pennsylvania. This building must have been a tannery at some point, converted to more modern uses by post-war survivors. Carts sported stacks of ferals, piled atop one another, stiff fingers extended as if still prepared to strike even in death. Rolls of hide bundles lined shelves, with rows and rows of fresh pelts strung and drying on racks. He crouched among the rotting bodies, nausea churning his stomach. It wasn’t being surrounded by death or the cloying, fetid smell of ghoul blood that bothered him; he had long since acclimated to both. It was a collection of images in his head that affected him. John dead. John being skinned. John alive while being skinned. John being alive and calling his name as thin blades parted his skin from his body…

Danse bent double, bile stinging his esophagus. _Stop it_ , he reprimanded himself. He wasn’t some green recruit, frightened at the possibility of mortality. He had a job to do.

“Kasumi,” he called, straightening, breathing through his mouth. “With me.” The beam bounced back in his direction, stealing his eyesight for a moment, and while he couldn’t see her expression, he saw the outline of her head nod over the flashlight. They searched the tannery, Danse dumping carts over to dig through the putrid bodies. The feral cadavers split open when they fell, gushing bouts of dark, gelatinous gore from their stomach cavities, adding to the reek of the facility and sticking to their boots. They both emptied drawers and smashed boxes, eyes peeled for the red, white and blue of John’s flag, kept as a keepsake or discarded into a corner, to no avail. Pushing though the building they emerged from the front door and out into the cool, damp air of the island. They both breathed deep, elated to be out of the stench inside, as the door loudly swung shut behind them. Kasumi rushed over a short boardwalk overlooking the waterfront and was sick again, leaning over the railing, her hands pushing her hair back.

“Oh, shit,” someone cried an instant before bullets tore up the wooden planks. Danse threw himself backwards, pressed into the paltry shelter of the doorframe as Kasumi pitched herself over the railing and tumbled into down to the beachfront, out of the line of fire. When the _click click_ of an empty cartridge sounded, he burst from the doorway and toward the source of the shots. A single trapper was fumbling to reload his hunting rifle, the sight of Danse rushing towards him making him drop his ammunition in panic. Slamming a shoulder into him, Danse took the trapper down easily, kicking the dropped rifle out of reach. The trapper wiggled and kicked, reaching for a second weapon tucked into his pants – a plasma pistol. Danse provided a blow that shattered the trapper’s nose. As the man squealed, clutching at his bloodied face, Danse yanked the pistol free and waved it at him. “Where did you get this?”

“Fuck you, man!”

He seized the trapper’s collar in one hand as Kasumi charged up to them. “Danse, are you okay?” She had the trapper’s rifle in her hands.

“Hold this,” Danse commanded, handing off the plasma pistol, which she took. He drew the trapper close to his face. “I am in the midst of an accumulation of the worst few months of my life. The remainder of my patience will not be wasted on the likes of you. Now, I ask again” – he landed a second blow to the trapper’s face – “where did you acquire that gun?”

“From some fuckin’ guy!” the trapper squalled.

Another blow. Danse felt bone crunch. “What guy?”

“Some fuckin’ brain-eater! What the hell does it matter?”

“Where is he?” Danse positively roared, shaking him viciously.

“He fuckin’ who? The thing with the flag?”

Claws of fury scratched at his insides, a violent pressure building inside of him. He pummeled the trapper until his knuckles bled freely. “The ghoul! _My_ ghoul! Where is he?”

“I – I don’t –”

“ _Yes, you do! Where_?”

The trapper threw up his hands, blood dripping from half a dozen different wounds in his face. “We ain’t got ‘im!”

Danse lowered his fist. “What do you mean? Elaborate.”

The trapper coughed and spit teeth. “Crawler…got in the way. Fuckin’ free-for-all between us, the crawler and a bunch of those rad-suckers. They snatch people up just as fast as we do.” He winced and coughed again. “Said we ain’t got ‘im. Hell, I’m just waitin’ for the rest of the guys to show up here.”

John was alive. He had escaped, at least. Cautious hope bloomed. “Where do the Children of Atom take the people they abduct?”

“Fuck if I know.” Danse drew back his fist again. The trapper cowered before him. “Naw, naw, naw, wait! M-maybe that submarine,” he stammered, obviously terrified.

Danse released his hold with a brusque shove. The freed trapper stared at him before gathering enough wits to haul himself to his feet. He ran, heading to towards a docked ship, getting most of the way down the dock before Danse shot him in the back, leaving no loose ends. The trapper’s body bounced once as it fell before rolling into the ocean. Danse let Righteous Authority fall back to his side. He felt so much anguish and anger that he didn’t know where to put it all. He knotted his fists for fear some of his hurting would spill out onto the pier. The cool air did little to sooth the fiery hatred mounting in him. Pain wrapped around him; it stung at his eyes, relentless.  His heart was hammering and his fists were clenched so tightly his arms shook. As he looked back at Kasumi, her eyes were wide, stunned and more than a little fearful. He couldn’t blame her, as his own blood ran down his fingers. Rarely did he lose control like this.

Something about John had always threatened to undo his composure. While Danse was been reserved and quiet in nature, John had always managed to knock his self-restraint loose. It was tricky to pinpoint exactly when the idea of being paired with John had stopped being a constant, personal struggle. He had begun to think that keeping their secret was becoming progressively sillier as time went on, especially in lieu of losing him. Those few words that he could never manage to say seemed to grow in significance with each passing day. And now, he might actually get the chance to say them. Keeping optimism in check, he asked, “Kasumi, where can I find that submarine?”

“I...I can show you,” she stuttered. Reaching into a pocket, she pulled out a clean rag. “Here,” she approached and took his injured hand, tying the cloth around it with careful fingers. “That should do until we get back. Do you want a stimpak?”

“No. Save them.” Sunset was breaking through the cloud cover to wash the landscape in a blood-red hue. It seemed as if the entire island was livid. “Let’s keep going.”

Kasumi set the pace, leading them around the tannery and back out into the wilderness. “Tell you what,” she said, turning around just enough for him to catch her smile. “I probably won’t be chatting up strange bearded men in stairwells again any time soon. I don’t have the training to handle rescues and gunfire.” 

“If you would like to learn, I’d be honored to teach you.” Being a mentor again would serve both of their best interests, giving their lives meaning and direction. After John had been recovered, they would collect Nick and take their leave of this place. Once Kasumi’s parents were informed, she could easily fall into place among the group at Sanctuary. Danse pictured it – him training an entirely new generation of Minutemen, capable and decisive, leaders that would take control of the Commonwealth – and it made him proud.

Her smile brightened, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I’d like that.”

It was in that instant that an explosion tore through the island, causing the ground to vibrate and rad-gulls to take to the sky in droves. Off on the horizon, a ball of flame grew, tinged with bursts of jade pulses, ballooning upwards until it formed a mushroom cloud. “What was that?” he asked her, dread settling in his chest. “What happened?”

Her mouth hung open for several heartbeats before she answered. “Um…that’s where we were going. Looks like the Nucleus finally popped.”


	14. Division

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 14: [Hidden Citizens - Another One Bites The Dust](https://youtu.be/ImkYL8wJn4A/)

JOHN

The Nucleus, ME

February 25th, 2288

John had little use for religion – he’d take a gun over a prayer any day – but he wasn’t one to openly mock someone’s beliefs. Up until now that was. There was eerie and then there was downright disturbing and this place managed to wear both with pride. The Children of Atom were kneeling and chanting, level upon level of them, all gaunt and sickly with sparse hair, dirty robes and face striped with tattoos. Their bizarre goo lights hung from every rooftop eave of the shacks that lined the walls, candles flickering creepily through cracks in the planks. The rusted submarine ran the length of the main chamber, lit above by candlelight and glass containers of luminous atomic waste, and illuminated below by a stagnant pit of fiery orange toxic runoff. The thing was old, pre-war and mostly oxidized, with minute holes, eaten away by corrosion, stippling the hull. John couldn’t begin to conjecture why a dry dock had been constructed to house a single submarine at the shoreline of a lake in Maine.

Tektus had climbed up after him, exiting the submarine an instant after John had emerged to join him where he stood beside the sail, promptly snatching up the attention of the zealots. “This being, our Champion, has accepted the gift of the Glow and given himself to Eternal Light,” Tektus was announcing, arms held aloft as he addressed his disciples. “Many of you have witnessed the splendor that He can bestow! Plucked from Atom’s Spring, this unworthy creature bares proof of Atom’s Glory!” He dragged a finger across the air, sweeping it over the shanties and metal walkways, landing on each zealot as they knelt in reverence. “As High Confessor, I bid you to bow down in awe of his Gifts.” _Gimme enough Jet and I’ll confess highly,_ John thought indignantly, skin crawling as he stood beside the fanatic. Whatever worship he was receiving was unmerited, as he was almost certain that those radiation balls he threw had only been conjured by the combined elements of the island’s fog and the absorbed gamma blasts. He decided that it was better it keep that information to himself. “This abomination straddles the ether between the earthly and spiritual realms,” Tektus continued. John flinched. He hadn’t been called _abomination_ to his face since Danse’s arrival in Sanctuary, and it didn’t sit any better now than it did then. “Give him your blessings and your devotion,” Tektus was concluding. “Follow his word for it is Atom’s will. May the grace of Atom go with you.”

As the Children of Atom dispersed, John slunk from the Confessor’s side, contemplating his options. Several zealots were both heavily armored and heavily armed. He knew from experience that nearly all of them carried gamma guns that, while the rays wouldn’t harm him, would significantly slow him down. All of his weapons had been lost to him. Now, he could only rely on his silver tongue to get him safely out of this concrete cage.

“Helluva place you got here,” he said to one of the zealots stationed at an entry pathway to the submarine, biding time while he tried to devise a way out. “Sooo…what? You sit here all day and soak up rads while searching for divinity? Good for you. Living the dream, I see.” John’s voice dripped sarcasm. He was out of chems, cigarettes and patience. Starved and still thirsty, he was over this excursion. He spotted a carton of dirty water beside a makeshift altar of spent fusion cores and skulls and snatched it up, prying the lip open and chugging the entire container in one draught.

The zealot huffed, “Ghouls. Unfit for Atom’s Grace.” An explosion of ink covered one side of his face in a spiraling tattoo. He looked like a blonde version of that asshole that ran the Prydwen, complete with facial scars. Along with the radium rifle that he held in his hands, an oversized warhammer was strapped to his back. It was a complicated thing, made of rusted steel piping and a head comprised of fusion cores.

Chucking the carton, John rolled his head this way and that in noncommittal agreement. “Ain’t arguing. I’d send this gift back. I’m not one for the spiritual stuff. Pretty sure I’d be going to Hell for all kinds of reasons – excess, murder, sodomy, working on Sundays…”

“Grand Zealot Richter,” Tektus called from the bow tower, and the blonde man snapped to attention. “There’s been an unfortunate discovery below deck. See that the matter is dealt with.”  

“Right away, High Confessor.” The blonde zealot, Richter, crossed the bridge to the submarine and climbed the ladder, disappearing into the hatch.

“You,” Tektus barked at John, and stabbed downward at the empty space next to him with an aggressive finger. “Get back here.”

John raised a brow, an insolent smile pulling at his mouth. “Yeah, orders ain’t really my thing. Tell ya what – how about I walk outta here and come back when we’re both in better moods. Seems like a win-win.”

The Confessor crossed a footbridge with surprising speed for someone so old and crotchety, and backed John against one of a shanty walls. “I have no tolerance for you, deceiver. But my disciples have faith in your abilities, and so we both find ourselves playing specific roles, I as the believer and you as the good dog carrying out my commands.”

John’s smile only grew. “That so? ‘Fraid you’re gonna find yourself disappointed, friend. I’m not easily swayed.”     

“Then I’ll have you shot down for sacrilege.” His lips formed a thin smile, although his eyes remained cold. John ripped his gaze away from the old man and scanned the chamber; as least three armored zealots had rifles trained on him. “You can function as my mouthpiece, as my _Champion_ , or be destroyed for heresy,” he offered calmly. “Either choice promotes my authority.”  

A woman’s scream echoed off of the concrete walls of the chamber. The zealot, Richter, was hoisting a thrashing woman out of the top hatch of the vessel. With her patchy red hair, she looked so much like Fahrenheit that John found himself ogling her with his mouth open. She kicked and flailed with wrists bound, screeching, “They lie! They’re lying to you! There are no infinite worlds within us! There is no Division, no Glory! Tektus will only bring us death!” Other Children of Atom were gathering once more, drawn by her cries.

“Silence, heretic!” Tektus snarled, stalking towards her as she struggled in Richter’s arms, tossing a snarl in her direction before addressing the Children. “Our laws are clear. You have been found guilty of blasphemy against Atom and He will not be affronted!” he proclaimed with his hands held high, perverted crown angled back as he lifted his face to the ceiling and the heavens beyond. “The dissenter will be put to death for crimes against Atom! Let her weakness inspire you all to greater fervent! Atom will not be mocked!”

“Glory be!” the chant began again, each zealot raising their own voice until a chorus of malcontent shook the facility, the catwalk vibrating under John’s boots.

“Take Sister Aubert to the rear altar,” Tektus commanded Richter, this time in a low voice that did not carry far. “Release her from her wasted shell. Crush her skull.” One strong arm around Aubert, Richter eased the warhammer out of the loops that held it in place.

“Hey, hey, hey,” John intervened, running back to the submarine. _Is everyone on this island a goddamned nutbag?_ “Hold up. Ya can’t just smash somebody’s head in for not agreeing with you. Just send her on her way. That works just as well.”

Tektus looked as though he had smelled something rancid. “And have her continue to spread rumors and filth, desecrating the name of Atom?” he growled, face pinched so hard that wrinkles had formed across the bridge of his nose. “Inconceivable. The Family has been on the island for over a decade. This is how we deal with profanation.”

“Death to the nonbeliever!” the Children were shouting. “No place in His creation for wickedness! She will delay our Division!”  

“Look, I get that you’ve been doin’ this longer than I’ve been a ghoul,” John placated, carefully biding his words, “but that ain’t how it’s gotta be.”

“Your transformation was sudden?” Richter questioned, wary disbelief narrowing his eyes. “How so?”

“Shoot up the right amount of radioactive solution and you can end up just as gorgeous as me,” John instructed, hesitant to reveal too much of his background. “You folks are into that kinda stuff, right – sudden, forced irradiation?”

“You took an injection?” Richter’s gaze was locked onto John. He didn’t even breathe. “From where? Where did you get it?”

John was taken back by the intensity of his stare. “Why? What do you know about it?”

“Both of you, discuss this later,” Tektus hissed to Richter in a harsh whisper, motioning to the crowd of followers watching. “Release this skeptic from her earthly bonds.”

A plan snapped together like pieces of a puzzle and John stood straight. “Hey, High Confessor. Let me demonstrate my acceptance of Atom’s Will. Of _your_ will.” He extended his hand for the warhammer, motioning for it with his fingers. “Gimme. I’ll put on a good show for your gatherers. Promise.” 

Tektus was silent for a few moments, time stretching as Richter interfered with, “High Confessor, I must obje-”

“Grand Zealot,” Tektus said, “surrender Atom’s Judgement to our _Champion_. And do not make me look foolish,” he warned John.

Richter stood immobile. The woman in his grasp seemed to have accepted her fate, sagging against him. Slowly, he extended the handle of the warhammer to John.

“Much obliged,” John said, taking the weapon. Handling a four-foot sledgehammer proved too ungainly for the emaciated ghoul; the heavy head dropped to thunk against the hull of the submarine, sending an echoing bang through the chamber. “It’s cool. Nobody saw that,” he said as he managed to get a better grip on it. Tektus gave a displeased frown as John struggled. John’s whole plan would go to pot if he couldn’t even lift the weapon. He cursed as threads of anxiety started to weave through his mind. 

A welcome tingle of rads came to play up and down his spine, warming his limbs, soaking into him. The weight of Atom’s Judgement lightened until it seemed comprised of little more than air, barely palpable in his hand.  He wielded the warhammer in a test arc, wincing as the burn of radiation traveled down his arms. In a surge of emerald light, the fusion cores on the head ignited, leaving a plume of green vapor in the weapon’s wake. He twirled it in one hand like a baton, in the same manor that he was used to spinning his knife, faster and faster , generating a circle of jade light before stilling it. “Huh,” he said, stunned, as the hammer head hummed steadily. “Lookit that.”

Cries of wonder were emitted as the Children of Atom sank once more to their knees. Looking back over his shoulder, John watched at Tektus joined his followers in reverence, hands raised, eyes wide in astonishment. “Feel His Glow and bathe in His Glory!” he cried, true awe in his voice, coupled with a hint of fear. “Atom has truly sent us a Champion to punish those for their sins.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll punish alright,” John muttered, pulling the woman out of Richter’s grasp. An aisle of candles led down the tail end of the submarine to a short altar. He pulled her to him as they began a slow march to the execution site. “Hey there, Sister,” he said in a low, conspiring tone. “You and I are gonna get each other outta this. Quick – why’s this concrete box dripping with rads?”

Watching him with enlarged aghast eyes, she answered swiftly, “The reactor within the vessel has been leaking for centuries. That was why this location was chosen. Many believe that proximity to the warhead will encourage a swifter Division.”

He forced her to her knees in show, bent over her so that they could still whisper. “This sub’s got a nuke in it?”

“It does. The Division is when the atom explodes, a nuclear reaction. They want that to happen. They don’t realize what it means.”

“Hold tight and be ready to run like hell,” he directed, and swung his head back to Tektus. “Any special words I gotta say?” he called.

Tektus stood and approached, sweeping his way down the aisle as he spoke. “Condemn the wretched for her sins and commit her to Atom.”

John nodded, adjusting his grip on the warhammer. “Got it. One condemnation, coming up.” When Tektus was near enough, John pivoted and swung the head of the hammer into the High Confessor’s chest, knocking him from the submarine and into the radioactive muck below. Before the first shot was fired, John leapt, following Tektus down into the glowing pit. Upon landing, something snapped in his ankle and he fell onto his backside, Atom’s Judgement falling from his grip and darkening as it was separated from him. He scrabbled for the weapon, grasping it by the handle before rolling through the golden ooze until he was safely out of the line of fire. Underneath the submarine, encompassed in the orange glow of the standing pool of toxins, he could hear the pops of gunfire, bullets knocking holes in the surrounding concrete barrier and causing the liquid below to splash in tiny bursts. Submerged in radioactive waste, the bones in his broken ankle began to shift, provoking a grinding of his teeth against the pain as they slid back into place. He felt a rush of comfortable warmth as his banged up body healed almost instantly and the sting in his ankle subsided. Thank goodness for there being some perks to being a ghoul.

“Blasphemer!” cried Tektus as he threw himself at John, radioactive refuse dripping from his clothing. As if feeling John’s wrath, Atom’s Judgement hummed to life again, head bursting into a bright green essence as he scrambled to his feet and swung it. Tektus dodged and the hammer connected with a support column, blowing chunks out of it. Fissures in the pillar glowed, crackling outward in green fingers of light. The column crumbled entirely, coming apart in great sections. The keel of the submarine groaned with the loss of one of its supports.

“You wanna burn in his Glow?” John roared at Tektus, bullets still firing overhead in attempts to reach him. “Oh, I can make you burn.” He hefted the warhammer again. “Have all the damn rads you want.” Instead of striking Tektus, John slammed the hammer into a second support beam, demolishing it. The submarine’s hull seemed to scream as the entire vessel tilted, tail coming straight down into the toxic pit below it. As it crashed down the building shook violently, waves of gold waste splashing up onto the walls of the concrete barrier. Alarms began to screech, emergency lights flashing red.

“ _Safety protocols compromised._ _Nuclear detonation imminent. Lockdown procedures initiated_ ,” a pre-recorded voice announced.

“The time is nigh! Feel his Glow and be Divided!” John could hear Tektus screaming. “Our very own Son of Atom brings us our Division!”

“Enjoy oblivion, ugly,” John grumbled, charging through the sludge to the head of the submarine in long strides, whirling up one flight or stairs after the other. No shots were being fired, and many people were screaming, their wails barely registering over the drone of the alarms. Despite their devotion, many Children followed John’s rush to escape, crowding into the narrow pathways that led outside. Several remained, knelt in prayer, eyes closed in wonder, ready to embrace their fates. John wanted to grab all of them, shout at them, shake them from their reverie, but this was their choice and, as disgusted as it made him, he had to respect what they chose. 

He emerged outside into a blood red sunset choked in fog amidst a cluster of terrified zealots. He was relieved to see the one that he had rescued taking off into the distance, putting as much space between her and the bunker as possible. John decided that was prudent and, with the warhamer still in his hand, tore out of a courtyard, around a length of fencing strewn with pennants baring more of the concentric circle designs, and up a rocky path. He was knocked to the ground when the bomb detonated, sending a wave of flame and radioactive discharge washing over him. He hugged the ground, feeling the searing heat of it whirl around him. His skin pricked but didn’t burn. Surrounded in churning green and red flames, he was horrifyingly reminded of Garrett’s last few sentient moments, when his friend had been engulfed in a nuclear explosion much like this one. Being forced into a feral state was probably a contingency that John should have planned for, having already watched Garrett pay the price for underestimating the cost of a close-range atomic explosion. The flames died gradually, blaze pulling back to leave John still conscious and with charred clothing, the hammer still glowing in his grasp.

He collected his feet under him and got up, cinders raining down as far as he could see. A smoldering pile of shattered concrete lay where the submarine’s bunker had been, flames wiggling free from the wreckage. The sky burned a mottled green, like the inside of a radstorm. A score of zealots were escaping into the surrounding tree lines. The figure of a large man drew his attention. Richter. He was charging up a winding trail to the top of a ridge, his radium rifle strapped to his back. John tore after him, hefting the hammer up to avoid knocking it against boulders. Following the jagged path took some time; several rocks loosened by the blast came free as he climbed over them, threatening to make John tumble down the mountain along with them.

When he succeeded in hauling himself over the final crest, he was greeted with the sight of a mint and white trailer veiled in fog, attached to a radio tower. Richter was nowhere to be seen. “ – Rave, come in,” Richter’s voice emitted from the radio trailer. More silent than he had ever been, John crept up to the camper, hefting the irradiated warhammer at his side. “This is Officer Brian Richter,” the zealot continued. “I have located a second affected specimen. Location, the New England Commonwealth. Camp Rave, copy?”

“ _Affirm, Richter_ ,” came the reply, half-buried in static. “ _Specimen prepared for extraction_?”

Stepping into the trailer, John brought his hammer up. Fog spilled in through the open doorway and window, pooling on the floor in a vaporous mist that rose to both of their knees. “Whatcha doin’, friend?” he asked.

Bent over the radio, Richter jerked his face up. He looked at John with a kind of irritated disappointment, as if he was a child caught playing with something he shouldn’t have been. “I know what you are,” Richter declared, moving away from the transmitter. “That injection wasn’t meant for you.”

Everything went blurry around the edges as John’s vision became tunneled. He felt as if a rug had been yanked out from under him, leaving him to stumble. “What the hell you mean by that?” he asked, watching Richter’s face for a reaction. John had opened his mouth to too many people. Although several people knew about his ghoulification drug – hell, everyone at Sanctuary was aware by now – no one had ever directly commented on it.               

“Did you really think that you were the only one of your kind?” Richter asked, in a contemptuous tone that was clearly rhetoric. “They’ll be looking for you now. It’s only a matter of time before you’re detained.”

John drew Atom’s Judgement higher; he could feel the warmth of it on his face as he gripped it in both hands. “I’ve had a bad day,” he proclaimed, eyes boring into Richter’s. “Start explaining.”

Richter grinned, looking surprisingly pleased for someone that had just lost his base, “You’re going to end the war, filth. Be elated. I’m taking you with me.”  A gunshot sounded thunderous within the confines of the trailer. John roared as a hot pain tore through his thigh. He didn’t fall but moved most of his weight to his other leg. Richter cocked the rifle again, and John could have kicked himself for not paying attention to the zealot’s posture. In a rush, he understood that Richter meant to cripple him, to drag him away once more, to use him for another faction’s gain.

With a scream of pure rage distorting his face, John thrust the handle of the hammer upwards, snapping the man’s head back, the impact sending sharp pain shooting up his left arm. Shifting the hammer, he brought the head down against the zealot’s chest again and again, a different angle for each blow, until the armor dented inwards and the Richter fell. As the adrenaline flowed through his body all John could hear were the cries of his own strain and the resounding clang of metal. Abandoning Atom’s Judgement to clang to the ground in a resounding clash of metal, he sank to his knees in the fog crawling over the trailer floor and took hold of Richter’s lolling head. For a peculiar moment, John pleaded with the fog, drawing strength and irradiated energy from it. It collected in his body, could feel it settling into his veins. He forced it back out again, focusing the glow directly into Richter’s head. Flashes of crackling gamma energy danced across the grand zealot’s face as he screamed, radiant green luster pouring out of his eye sockets and mouth, burning him from the inside out. John could feel Richter’s skull weaken to crack and crumble beneath his hands. The yelling ended and the light extinguished.

The radio spat, _“Richter, copy? What’s your status?”_

A wave of exhaustion crept up on him as Richter’s body smoked olive fumes. The feeling went out of John’s body entirely and he dropped, finally remembering to breathe, bracing his elbows on his knees. The leg with the bullet hole trembled as fog seeped into the injury. With radiation instigating healing, the wound closed, spitting out the bullet as it sealed, leaving only a tear in his pants for evidence of an assault. He felt lethargic, like being trapped underwater or delightedly under the influence of some downer. Hand drifting through the fog, he took hold of the hammer again, using it as a cane to help him up.

It was an even more treacherous trip down the mountain side, weakened and half-strung out by the fog. He hopped a boulder and misjudged the distance, losing his footing and tumbling down the slope. Dumped onto his stomach at the base of the mountain trail, he lay sprawled in the road, scratchy asphalt under his face.

Drained of strength, he wanted to lay in the fog forever and vanish. The last fiery beams of sunset faded, and purple twilight was taking over the sky. The fleeing zealots were long gone, leaving only the smoking ruins of the bunker nearby for company. He had lost the warhammer during his fall; it lay, powered down, a few feet away. John mustered the strength to push himself up to his feet and reach for it. The weapon felt heavier now and instead of lifting it, he dragged it, making his way down the road and away from here.

“ _John!_ ” he could have sworn he heard someone call. It was too hard to concentrate; every effort had to be put into shuffling one foot in front of the other. “ _John!_ ” someone called again as he was grabbed by the shoulder and roughly spun.

Danse was there, holding onto him with one hand, his dark eyes wide with disbelief. John’s blood swished, sickeningly powerful; his lungs screamed for him to remember to breathe. This was real. Danse pulled him into his arms, and the warhammer fell to the ground once more as John went limp against him. “Aw, hell,” John said, letting the embrace ground him. “Please tell me you’ve got a cigarette. You wouldn’t believe –”

Danse cut him off with an urgent kiss, absorbing John’s story. “I love you,” he said, breaking their connection only to speak.

Back in his body, mind sharpening, John answered, “Well, damn. Finally.”


	15. Don't Ask...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 15: [Jessie J- Thunder (Brian Justin Crum cover)](https://youtu.be/CoR5tOYdVLQ/)

DANSE

The Citadel, VA

November 10th, 2279

The mission, though lengthy and hazardous, had been fruitful and he hadn’t lost a single man while retaking the city. After eleven weeks in the field, clearing a vast super mutant hive out of Charlotte, North Carolina, Danse had been elated by the prospect of going home. His squadron’s triumphant return to the Citadel was dampened when they entered through the front gates to learn of Elder Lyons’ freak, accidental death. In that moment, Danse had briefly considered walking out and walking back in again, trying for a different outcome. The news had punched him in the gut, left him reeling and generated a hazy feeling which settled over his senses. Sarah had been a constant figure at the Citadel, some aspects of his field training being directly instructed by her, and Danse had entertained brief fantasies of serving in the Pride while under her tutelage.

The sudden loss of their Elder had left the Citadel in a state of upheaval. Her absence was felt by all senior officers, suddenly tasked with building ranks without direct supervision. Someone had tagged _Thanks for the mess, Sarah_ , over her memorial site in the courtyard. Under her orders, a massive enlistment push had been instigated and, during Danse’s time in Charlotte, the facility had become crowded with farmers and traders looking for refuge and consistent employment. To accommodate housing concerns a secondary camp was established at Adam’s Air Force Base, where the location would continue to be cleared of Enclave influence. An exorbitant amount of children had come with the new recruits, resulting in more squires than the Brotherhood had ever dealt with, and several of the youngsters were too little to even begin training. The bailey was teaming with recruits day in and day out, dressed in half-uniform-half-scavenged apparel. Now and again, a piece of Enclave armor could be seen flashing in the sunlight before being swallowed up by the crowd again.

Paladins and sentinels kept operations moving while they waited for their next elder to arrive. Prior to his ascension, their new elder hadn’t even been a paladin, just a knight-captain from Texas, and he was expected within the week. Danse found himself with no fewer than eight recruits under his sponsorship. He had trouble finding work for them all, and had sent most to Adam’s Air Force Base to handle salvage and the building of an airship that would enable mobilized assaults. One was currently cleaning his suit of armor, which stood stinking and caked in visceral gore in C Ring. The last one, and the only recruit to have been assigned to his care prior to that mass enrolment, was with him in his room.

He was back in his quarters with the door closed, among his belongings and enjoying some semblance of privacy. Although he shared the room with two other paladins, the three of then often served in rotating assignments, and Danse was presently the only one on premises at the Citadel. Sitting upright in his desk chair, he wore a simple black undershirt with his tags out and dangling over his chest, paired with issued uniform pants in their standard shade of rust-orange and combat boots. The recruit was standing behind him with her hands in his hair. The trailing of her fingers against his scalp felt sublime and he sighed, allowing his head to flop forward.   

“Hey, hey. Quit moving,” she admonished, tightening her fingers in his hair and drawing his head up. He heard the _snip snip_ of scissors begin again as she started to trim the hair over his ear. He refrained from slumping as she continued cutting his unruly mop, grown too long during his deployment. He had to say that being attended to was a well-received change from scourging in the field, sealed in his armor, sleeping for twenty minutes at a time if he was lucky, and eating freeze-dried food out of sealed bags. “There are twelve initiates that share my quarters now,” Initiate Brittney Haylen told him as she worked. “We have to sleep in shifts. I mean, not that I’m complaining,” she continued, ignoring his pensive silence. “I’m thrilled that the Brotherhood took me in. I guess I just hadn’t planned on going from one crowded settlement to another.”

Her words washed over him, the chatter a vague buzz that didn’t puncture the fogginess in his mind. He was exhausted, both from his assignment and the situation at the Citadel. The idea of a few nights’ sleep assisted by Calmex was delectable. He was itching to see John again – it had been far too long since he had held him – but his debriefing would take at least another two weeks, the process delayed by issues at hand. Too many green recruits and too many mouths to feed clogged the base.

Haylen had joined, as many had, to provide a safe home for her toddler daughter. The reality of having a small child out in the Wastes was that it was an almost certain death sentence. She never spoke of the father. Danse and Haylen had only a two month sponsorship together before his transfer to Charlotte had been confirmed. In his absence she had been given the task to select a profession and begin training; she had chosen medicine, a noble yet humble calling. “Word from the West Coast is that all elders are being forbidden from overseeing field operations after what happened to Sarah – I mean, Miss – I mean Elder Lyons. Oh, but…I guess you already know that.” The air on his bare arms felt welcomely crisp as tiny snippets of hair floated down to tickle the back of his neck. Haylen blew soft puffs of air as she worked, dislodging the hairs and sending shivers down Danse’s spine.

“I suppose that there are worse jobs that I could have gotten stuck with. Could be cleaning latrines with my toothbrush right now,” Haylen joked, tracing the outline of his ears before commencing to trim the back of his head. He shuddered again and gripped his knees, his body starved for human touch. It had been nearly four months since he had laid with John, the longest they had gone without each other since they had met. A knot was forming in his stomach, the result of misplaced arousal and an uncomfortable proximity to a relative stranger. Her fingers kept unnecessarily traveling over the nape of his neck. He understood her intent; he wasn’t dense.

“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear, brushing her chest against his back as she leaned over him to place a comb and a short pair of steel scissors on the desk in front of him. Strawberry blonde hair tumbled over his shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve kept me by your side.”

Haylen brushed her palms up his arms as she leaned back, fingertips outlining the swell of his biceps and shoulders as his heart pounded. He felt dizzy, almost ill and slightly panicked. When she slipped cool fingers down the back of his undershirt, his hands snapped up and over his hand to grab them. “Initiate…” he began, unsure of how to phrase his refusal of her advances.

She slipped out of his grip and he swung his head around to look at her. Haylen’s chest rose in swift breaths, her gaze to the floor. “I…I’m sorry, Sir.”

He forced a deep breath and rubbed at his stubble, anxiety making him sweat. “This isn’t because I…You’re very…I respect…” He bit his lip. None of these intros seemed correct given what he wanted to say.

“Sir, I was out of line. My mistake. I’ll accept whatever penalty you deem –”

“I’m with someone.” He hadn’t meant to say it; the words had a life of their own. Secrets had never sat well with him. The fact that he had managed to keep the knowledge of John under wraps for this long was astounding. He immediately regretted saying anything at all.

Haylen still didn’t meet his eyes. “I…oh…I didn’t know.”

“The person I’m with…our pairing will not result in a Legacy. Do you understand?” Heart still beating hard, he was light-headed and nervous, taking shallow breaths, his fingernails digging into his thighs. His brain was screaming at him to stop talking, to order her out, to take his rifle, head to the Mall, and shoot anything he could find.

She looked up, staring at him through round blue eyes. He had already said too much and yet, it wasn’t enough. She only knew enough to be suspicious from here on out. If she asked around…if she found that no one knew of Danse ever being seen with someone, he would have to surrender more information, perhaps even before an official panel. Most soldiers survived on a diet of one-night stands or expedited courtship, bringing their new mates in for assimilation into the Brotherhood. A drawn out engagement, such as the situation between John and him was unheard of. Not only was John an alike gender, but there would be no discussion about him enlisting. He had neglected to create a Legacy through marriage and procreation. This was the only aspect of Danse’s career where he had failed. Should Haylen raise too many questions, Danse could find himself on the opposite side of an inquiry that could cost him his livelihood. After that, he’d be lucky to sell broken typewriters from a box under the Rivet City entryway.

When he spoke, his voice was barely louder than a whisper. “The person that I’m with…he _…_ he isn’t part of the Brotherhood,” he explained, humiliated and terrified to discuss this. Appealing to any sense of compassion she might have towards him was his only hope.

“Oh.” She seemed stunned for a moment, blinking rapidly. “You…You’re –”

“Yes,” he answered swiftly, not wanting to hear her to say the word.

“I didn’t…I didn’t know.”

“No one does.” He squeezed his eyes closed, giving himself a respite before looking at her again.

Haylen sat down on the foot of the nearest bed. The moss green blanket clashed with her orange jumpsuit. “How long?” she asked, her hands moving more emphatically than she actually spoke, as if she were only getting a portion of her words out. “I mean…you and him…how long have you been…you know.” This seemed a painfully awkward topic for both of them.

“Almost two years,” Danse answered honestly, voice slightly steadier now. “Our time together is infrequent. Once every few months, at best. Occasionally, it is difficult for him to make it down or for me to make it up. Communication is spotty – sometimes it can take up to a month for me to be able to respond to a message.”

Haylen’s pale brows were creased in concern. “That sounds awful.”

“It is.” He hadn’t been aware that he had been holding his breath until it came out in whoosh. He released his hold on his legs. “While I wish we could –”

She shook her head in a tight wobble. “Not for you. For him.”

Danse stiffened, pausing in his sentence to stare at her.

“C’mon, Danse,” she reprimanded in a sharp voice, gesturing to him with a hand. “Never knowing where you are? If you’re alright? That’s not fair.”

His mouth hung open before he pulled his gaze away. John had told him as much verbatim. Was his treatment of John apparent to everyone but him?

He could add the name _John McDonough_ to a short list that had only one other occupant – _Mike Cutler_. John, who freely grinned but rarely laughed. Danse was more cautious with his smiles, reserving them for rare occasions. It had been easier to share humor and company with Cutler. They had both been soldiers in the same unit and merchant partners before that. Where Cutler has been dark skinned with shorn black hair, John was pale with wavy blonde locks. They tasted differently, both their mouths and their bodies. While Cutler had kept a respectful distance, John was always touching him, running a hand through his hair or taking his hand. Danse fought a mild sensation of guilt over replacing steady, clam, dead Cutler with this wild, carnal man from the Commonwealth. His relationship with Cutler had been quiet and controlled, lest they risk discovery. Although friendly with the rest of their division and downright mischievous at times, the two of them had kept to themselves. Danse did wonder at times if they were the worst kept secret in the Citadel, but no one fussed and on they sailed. Now, he couldn’t afford any additional closeness. Not after what had happened before. Since losing Cutler, his heart was carefully locked behind sturdy bars of steel. He loved John as best as he could, but he had a feeling that letting him in would only result in hurting worse than ever before.

“What’s he like?” Haylen inquired as he raised his eyes. She swept her hair to one side and fixed him with an attentive gaze, propping her head up on one fist.

Danse was stunned by the ease of her conversing, and felt embarrassed to realize that this was a normal discussion for most people. He had never spoken to anyone about John and wasn’t certain of how to begin. “He’s…not at all what I had expected to find. Or to want. He’s…” A candid image of John came to him, the way he would raise a brow in defiance or say something so fast and biting that Danse wouldn’t be able to come up with a fitting response. “Well, he’s smug. And quarrelsome. And…absolutely brilliant,” Danse added with pride, a small smile turning the corners of his mouth up. “He can spend hours talking about many different subjects. Theology, ethics, anthropology, physics. He could challenge any scribe on knowledge.” More images came to mind, of John angry, battling him with words, of John quiet and calm, curled against him as they sat in comfortable silence together, of John in his fiery passion, looking at Danse as if he were the most precious thing left in the world. “He’s swift to act but not to accept criticism. This has caused the majority of our problems. We are…very different. I understand his reactions to what I say or do, as I feel he understands mine. Although we are motivated by different factors, I feel that he and I both want the same thing – to do right by our peers and instill decency within those we meet.” His heart swelled and hurt. It was difficult to care so much for someone that would always be just out of reach. “Should anything befall me…” He trailed off, upset with himself for dropping too much information onto Haylen’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. This is an inappropriate request.”

“No, please…” She reached out and squeezed his arm. There was no intention behind the touch other than support. “What do you need me to do?”

He hung his head, taking deep, steady breaths. “In the event that I should be incapacitated or killed in action…could you find a way to let him know? His name is John. He resides in Diamond City, up in the Commonwealth.” It hurt to think of it, of leaving John alone to deal with the aftermath of his death.

“Of course. Don’t worry. I’ll find him. _John_ ,” she repeated. “ _Diamond City_. Got it. Not that I’ll ever have to go look for him, you know?” she added, quickly. Her mouth was turned up but her brows were lined, worriedly. Her eyes remained kind.

He put a hand over hers. “Thank you.” He felt an enormous relief, the metaphoric weight of his secret lifted. This whole conversation was very difficult for him but he was satisfied with the outcome. Almost. “I…please. Can we keep this topic between us? This will not reflect on my performance as your commanding officer nor will it impede your training. Your discretion would be most valued.”

She squeezed his arm once more. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back, Sir.”


	16. Freakshow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 16: [J2 - Devil Inside](https://youtu.be/-QibjeVMb8A/)

NICK

Acadia, ME

February 25th, 2288

Acadia was silent. Every resident seemed to be holding their breath as DiMA rocked back and forth on his throne, clutching at his head. Faraday and Chase exchanged anxious glances while Nick leaned back, resting his elbows on the counter of a console. Night had fallen once more, but no light shone down from the gaps in the ceiling. The moonlight was obscured by cloud covering and the center rotunda was shrouded in darkness, the monitors throwing weak blue illumination only a few feet before fading into black. DiMA looked reptilian, colorless, curled up with only the faintest glimmers of light reflecting off of his glass tubing and metal fixtures. 

Despite unearthing a mountain of information, Nick wasn’t able to say that he was proud of himself for successful fact-finding; on the contrary – he’d rarely felt more disappointed. While Danse and John had been off struggling with their own adventures, Nick had thrown himself headfirst into unraveling the mystery that was DiMA. He knew better than to take anyone at their word and had cowed his brother into revealing his history on Far Harbor. A short trek across the island, a few cracked terminal entries, and some breaking and entering had left Nick with even more questions. DiMA had looked blank when Nick had returned and deposited a stack of memory drives in front of him. Only when he had run the files had DiMA slipped into a state of absolute shock and become inconsolable.

It was at this time that Kasumi, Danse and John had reappeared, the ghoul looking worse for wear, his clothing charred and lugging a colossal warhammer at his side. Danse’s hand was knotted in the back of John’s flame-kissed shirt as if he would never let go of him. The plasma pistol was back at the ghoul’s hip. He seemed drained as he pressed one shoulder against Danse. The former soldier leaned right back; it wasn’t clear which one of them was fully holding the other upright. Both of their faces were indecipherable, but their eyes were drinking in the sight of DiMA’s distress. Kasumi’s features were lined with concern for her leader, her jumpsuit caked in mud. A few stray leaves were caught up in her hair.

While DiMA had been either unable or unwilling to speak, Nick caught them up. “It appears as if my nearest and dearest sibling has been hard at work as puppet-master of the island. The Children of Atom, Far Harbor, Acadia – he’s orchestrated everything. Smoke and mirrors, all of it.” He scowled at DiMA, ashamed to know him. “By creating dependency, you control everything. You toy with the lives of those that trust you.”

“So, you’re a fraud,” Danse accused in a harsh tone from under his shaggy beard, his eyes narrowed in distaste. “You’ve used these synths as a ruse to further your own ambitions.” Nick felt it especially cruel for DiMA to have lulled Danse into trusting synths only to have this utopia be false. He wondered how far back this knowledge would set him. Danse’s insults and name-calling were sure to start up again, his cynicism of synths renewed by DiMA’s folly.

“DiMA,” said Kasumi, stepping forward and extending a hand as if to touch him, “You didn’t mean to do anything wrong, did you? You…you were protecting us.” Her voice shook as if she didn’t quite believe the excuse that she was trying to offer.

“Yeah, sure,” said Nick, rolling a cigarette between his thin fingers. “Replacing folks for their own good, right? Isn’t that the Institute’s line?”

Kasumi withdrew her hand. “ _Replace_?” she repeated, her expression changing from concern to shock. “Who did you replace?”

DiMA stilled himself but willfully dodged her question. “I…have done great wrongs. I do not deny this fact,” he said, pulling his hands from his face. His eyes had a glint to them, as if tears were possible for someone – some _thing_ – like him. “But Far Harbor can never know,” he insisted, faint traces of fear in his voice. “Acadia would be wiped off the face of the island. Oh, what have I done?” he questioned, threatening to fall back into despair.

“It’s called willful ignorance for a reason,” said John as he propped the head of his hammer on the ground. The ghoul’s eyes were piercing and aggravated, nerves apparently battered and frayed from having dealt with the Nucleus.

“You’ve proven yourself dangerous,” Danse acknowledged. He glanced at Kasumi. “Your deception reflects on the other synths in your care.”

“What shall I do? Far Harbor will never forgive me,” lamented DiMA, his spindly fingers tracing his jaw.

The last few months of Nick’s life had been spent surrounded by individuals searching for second chances – for revenge, for family, for proving themselves, for being worthy of being allowed to live. Every last one of the group in Sanctuary was on the run from their own demons, while simultaneously searching for reinvention. Nick’s heart softened a smidge. This was a conversation that he knew how to broach. He crossed the room until he stood before his brother and placed his hands on his shoulders, careful to avoid the exposed wiring and tubing. “Trust in humanity, DiMA. It may, occasionally, surprise you.”

“You really want equality?” John chimed in, and both Nick and DiMA raising their head to regard him, Nick dropping his hands. “Then you gotta be responsible for what you’ve done, same as anybody else. Tell ‘em what you did and why. Folks…they’ll do the right thing.” John paused and shrugged. “Granted they ain’t megalomaniacal nutcases, that is.”

“Tell them? Explain my crimes to the people of Far Harbor?” DiMA looked at John as if he were mad.

John put a hand on Danse’s shoulder and he released John’s shirt. He then strode to DiMA and knelt by his side. “There once was a Gen-1 synth,” John began with a smile, in a soft voice. “And I called it a toaster. It didn’t understand human emotion or reason, but it tried; it wanted to make those who knew it proud. It was my friend. And it died for me. And for those reasons, I loved it. It was better than it was made to be.” John stood, still wearing the smile. “You can grow, too, DiMA. You can change, and you can matter. And whatever the endgame is, you can bare it.”

“DiMA,” said Nick, “my tragically flawed big brother.” DiMA set his gaze on him. “The synths in your care adore you. Maybe that’s ‘cause they don’t know any better, or maybe ‘cause you’ve sold them a good story. But you owe them. If you don’t take responsibly…if you just keep on lying and putting yourself first, it’s gonna come back to bite them, too. And they don’t deserve to be punished for trusting you.” He felt a capricious urge to light a cigarette, but he was fresh out. “If your actions get uncovered before you have a chance to explain them, you know what will happen. Far Harbor will descend on Acadia and that precious peace that you’ve strived for will end in a blood bath. Step up, absolve the rest of them, and go to your verdict proudly. Leave a legacy of integrity for Acadia to hang its hat on. _Set the example_ ,” Nick reminded. “Your words. Don’t lose everything you’ve fought for.” Smiling, he extended his hand to DiMA, offering to help him out of his chair.

DiMA accepted and, with their hands clasped, he stood saying, “I find myself in agreement. I will venture Far Harbor and I will stand trial for my deeds. I accept the results of my actions.”

“We’re going with you, DiMA,” Faraday insisted.

Chase nodded and added, “All of us.”

And so they began their journey, a long line of synths trailing down the mountainside, holding lanterns of fog condenser juice aloft to keep the fog at bay, marching towards Far Harbor to stand beside their leader. Night had fallen heavy and black over the island. A dense cloud cover blanketed the sky; no moon or stars showed their faces, no breeze rustled the full-blown spring growth of leaves. Trees stood like sentinels, still, watching in the calm. In between earth and sky, the fog crept through roadways in silvery streams. It seemed as if the entire planet was holding its breath, awaiting the outcome of events.

Nick fell to the end of the line to approach his Commonwealth comrades. Danse stuck close to John, Kasumi a step behind both of them. John gave him the briefest of recaps about the last twenty-four hours.

“So you had fans?” Nick said, a grin spreading wide across his face, pulling the plastic tight. “Sounds like you – holy savior of Eden. Did ya offer a sack of chems for enlightment?”

“Oh, shut up,” was John’s response. “You’ve got your in at Acadia and Dan’s wearing a human face. Me? I’ll always be a mess.”

Odd. John had been the only one of the three of them to have ever been fully human and currently faced the worst brunt of the island’s prejudice. Danse looked human and was accepted in Far Harbor, Nick was welcomed at Acadia, and John didn’t fit in anywhere.

“Does that upset you?” Nick pondered. “Not finding a place where you belong?”

John rolled his head in a flippant manner: “Well, hey, why would I be upset? Just because of what the universe tends to dump on me? Course not,” he answered snidely. “I like my torment perpetual. ‘Sides, Goodneighbor’s where I belong.” His appearance betrayed his demeanor, concern tracing unappealing lines on his face. “Some guy said something though…that I wasn’t the only one like me. Don’t know what that meant. Other ghouls like me? Other folks that took the same drug?”

 _Other folks_ …Stunned, Nick almost stumbled. Nate was the only person alive, other than Nick himself, who knew about the fate of Eddie Winter, a man who had lived for centuries after taking a drug that left him a ghoul. The parallels between Winter and John were uncanny; two men so intent on escape that they would rely on any method available. “Say, John…” he began slowly. “When we get home, you and I are gonna have a long talk. That guy you’re talking about…well, he might have been right.”

John gave Nick a sidelong look, not breaking stride. “What do you mean?” He had to be starved for answers. It was common knowledge that John hadn’t intended on surviving his transformation.

Nick shook his head, denying him only for the time being. “Not now. We’re walking in a viper’s nest. Later. I promise.”

The blue lights of the fog confessors were visible long before the group approached the Hull. A man was running up the path to meet them. Danse, in his fashion, shoved his way to the front of the line, bringing his weapon up. “Halt,” he called. “State your business.”

The man slowed, wandering into the lights cast by the Acadian synth’s lanterns. It was one of the Far Harbor citizens, a portly fellow that blinked owlishly at Danse through spectacles. “It’s you. The Hero. What…what are you doing with them?”

Not faltering, Danse’s posture remained taut. “And you’re the shopkeeper. I say again – what’s your business?”

“I need to speak to DiMA. I’m Brooks. I mean, L7-92. Are you…are you with _us_?” he asked, mouth open in shock.

Danse lowered his rifle. “I’m M7-97,” he said, turning, allowing the man clearance. “Proceed.” The merchant passed him by and fell into an animated whisper with DiMA and Chase. Danse shouldered his weapon and returned to John, Nick, and Kasumi. John wore a spreading smile and he looked to Kasumi. She launched herself into a hug that left her dangling around Danse’s neck. “What happened?” Danse asked, hands up, perplexed gaze swinging between the both of them.  Nick couldn’t help but to grin as well. Danse, despite all of his bluster, didn’t seem to notice his slip. That clanking bigot from last autumn had admitted to being a synth without protest. Nick had never been prouder of him.

“Events are unfolding,” Chase barked at the line of synths. “Should you wish to turn back, the time is now.”

“We stand with DiMA,” called Kasumi, releasing Danse. “Family sticks together,” she asserted, and they rolled onwards as a group.

They arrived in Far Harbor in time to witness a mob gathering at the front gate. The hull towered over a collection of people, some standing, some kneeling. All those on their feet appeared to be brandishing weapons while figures in rags sat with their heads bent. “Never a good sign,” muttered Nick, nudging John and Danse. “Looks like things might just go sideways on us.” He briefly considered calling the whole thing off. The entire synth contingent came to full stop as he maneuvered his way to DiMA’s side.

“Hey, I know that broad,” John said as they approached, pointing to a woman with sparse hair that knelt in a threadbare robe. “She made it out!” No sooner had the last word left his mouth than a gunshot fired and the woman crumbled to the ground. Additional shots left the other kneelers, all Children of Atom, dead at the gate.

Allen, the man from the dock when they had arrived, cleared the chamber of his rifle and cocked it again. “You see! I been tellin’ you and I been tellin’ you,” he shouted to the other residents. The residents began to gather the bodies of the Children of Atom, dragging them off to dump them in the ocean. Among the habormen was Longfellow, kicking a dead zealot into the sea. “These damn zealots have been trying to shut down the turbine for ages. Took finding a multitude of their bodies in the maintenance shed to prove it. Thank god for the automated defenses layin’ waste to them or else we’d all be dead in their place.”

“ _What in the goddamn Wastes is wrong with you_?” John roared, charging down the path. Danse took hold of the back of his shirt again, stopping him just out of the hammer’s reach. “These were refugees! They were comin’ to you for help!” His eyes looked bright, as if he were on the verge of tears. “They come to you and you cut ‘em down!”

Captain Avery stepped forward, shaking her head. Her gun was drawn, albeit angled down. “We saw the burst from the Nucleus this afternoon. Those bodies in the shed have been there for some time.” She looked weathered and pale. If she backed this decision, it obviously wasn’t sitting well with her. “We have to protect our own.”

Nick watched the group of synths as they hung back, waiting in silence for a sign that coming to Far Harbor this wasn’t the worst decision in their lives. He squared his narrow shoulders and stood tall, hands out at his sides, motioning for the lot of them to remain calm. DiMA was the one among them to speak up. “People of Far Harbor, I have come to atone for my sins,” DiMA announced, arms held wide as synths cowered nervously behind him. The synths surrounding him parted, allowing for him to face her directly. Harbormen stilled and gaped, their weapons still hanging at their sides.

 _No,_ Nick thought, _not now_. The harbor was too charged to allow anything else to enflame them without repercussions. “You sure you want to do this now?” he cautioned DiMA.  For all his technological advancements, DiMA seemed to be acting like a dumb robot. “This could get out of hand real fast.”

“I have to, Nick. I must be truthful. Avery,” DiMA said, reaching out to her with fine, needle-sharp fingers. “I must apologize. I never meant to cause disorder.” The fingers clenched at air before dropping defeatedly. “I…I took your life thinking that I could give a better one back to you. You, I, and Martin, the High Confessor that brought the Children here…we were to create a shining utopia that would unite the island. Yet I insisted on overreaching, and turned all of our dreams to ash.”

“What do you mean you _took my life_?” repeated Avery, her hand contracting over her gun. Fear had crept into her eyes, blotting out reason.

“DiMA, no –!” Nick shouted, maneuvering to the front of the consortium, putting himself between DiMA and the captain as DiMA declared, “You must feel it. That you aren’t the real Avery. I’m sorry. I feel regret at replacing you instead of resorting to a parlay between our communities.”

Avery panicked, screaming, “No! I’m not a synth. I’m not!” Predictably, her gun came up. “They’re lies! Don’t listen to him. He’s making it up to divide us!”

“Look what that thing is doing!” Allen bellowed, coming to her aide. “It’s playing with us! Acadia deserves to be burned to the ground. One by one, each and every one of us is gonna get dragged off in our sleep, our replacements breaking bread with our families the next morning. Where does it end? When all of us are like them?” Allen shrieked, his rifle still dangerous in his hands.

DiMA raised his hands again, looking much like he first had when they had first arrived in Acadia, trying to appease a bad situation. “I am the only one to blame. The other synths were negligent of my actions. Allow for a peace between our houses, and condemn only me.”

“No one group is faultless,” Danse spoke up, hauling John back and standing in front of Allen. “These synths mean you no harm. All they want is to exist, unmolested by those who fear them.”

“What in the goddamn hell do you know?” Allen sneered. “You bring these freaks into this town and think you can tell me what’s real? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Danse’s voice had a commanding quality to it as he proclaimed, “I’m a _synth,”_ shouting it before the entire town. Several harbormen cried out and gasped. “No one here asked for this,” he continued, waving an arm behind him, indicating at the entire synth contingent along with John. “They’ve been forced into hiding, shielding themselves against persecution for existing at all. Let them add to your ranks, assist in caring for the island and your town. You have more in common than you think.”  

“Well, I’ll be. Goddamn proud of you, tin can,” John approved, his ebony eyes shining with delight. Taking his hand, Danse pulled John into a one-armed embrace, and kissed his forehead through the bandana. They stole a beautiful moment together, quiet, with eyes closed, leaning against one another.

Nick allowed himself a small moment of optimism. If someone as dyed-in-the-wool hateful as Danse could change, adopt new ways of thinking and allow for tolerance, surely there would be hope for the future, a time were synths, humans and even ghouls could live as equals. Danse didn’t have to, he could have gone right on hating synths; plenty of ghouls loathed themselves and their lot in life. Nick couldn’t help but think that it was John’s influence that had swayed him, his pushy demeanor finally convincing Danse to alter his tune and think for himself. If – _when_ – the Institute fell, this silly fear of synths stealing lives could end. For the first time in Nick’s long life, he was eager to see this new world that was sure to unfold.

Allen made a low, disgusted noise in the back of his throat as if he were gagging. “A synth and a fucking ghoul. Isn’t that the sickest shit you’ve ever heard in your whole life?”

The sight at the gates had frayed Nick’s last nerve and he launched to defend his friends. “Shut up, Allen. Every time you open your damn mouth, the whole town suffers.”

For an instant, Allen appeared taken back and blinked at Nick in surprise. “Goddamn it,” he swore, recovering and hefting his rifle up to his sightline. “I’m done with this freakshow.”

The last thing Nick saw was the barrel of Allen’s rifle aligning with his face. He spotted a flash of gunpowder igniting and his vision fractured into a wall of black. There was the swift piercing of an alarm from within his processor, interspersed with static before both cut out. Blind and deaf, Nick staggered before sensation fled his body entirely. Images flashed by as memory drives misfired, excerpts from his life rolling backwards through time. They sped by too fast to focus on, places and faces mingling into one long, blurry slideshow. The pictures slowed until one final scene played out.

He was strapped to a table in a stark white room, looking up at the ceiling. Bright lights shined down from above, making it hard to see. He wasn’t Nick Valentine yet. He was merely someone – some _thing_ – without a name.

A movement by his side made him jolt in fright. A gentle hand patted his arm as someone leaned over to look down at him, a reassuring smile on their face. “Don’t worry, brother,” it said. The figure’s polymer skin was intact. There was no tubing, no extra drives, just an average Gen-2 synth dressed in an Institute uniform.  “I’ll look out for you. You and I…we’re going to do great deeds together.”

The room faded, the tableau shrinking into a single pinprick of light before extinguishing.


	17. No Safe Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 17: [Hidden Citizens – Take Me On](https://youtu.be/YCYHliCq3Zc/)

DANSE

Far Harbor, ME

February 25th, 2288

Time slowed as the synthetic body of Nick Valentine staggered and fell.

John pulled his hand out of Danse’s before throwing himself forward, as if he could possibly help. There wasn’t enough of Nick’s head left to repair. Danse caught him before he had gotten far, looping arms around his middle, lifting him up and away. John struggled in his arms as Nick hit the ground. John was screaming. Not words, just one long note of primal anguish.

With shock fogging his senses, Danse found his gaze wandering. Nearby, Kasumi had her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. DiMA was moving, covering the distance between him and his brother in fluid strides. Looking stunned, Avery’s mouth hung open, the gun dropping from her hands to clatter onto the wooden planks of the wharf. Looming in the background, Longfellow’s brow had lowered; his hands gripped his rifle tightly. Danse’s eyes finally landed on Allen, his face contorted in disgust as he cleared the chamber with a hollow-sounding clunk.

Time slammed back into progression. Peace reigned for a single breath. Then, the gunshots began. Danse couldn’t tell who started it, Acadia or Far Harbor. Both groups started shooting, the bangs deafening. Chase pressed forward, firing at the citizens while Faraday fell back, leading a group of synths away, back into the mists.

He heaved John out of the maw of the open gate and threw himself back against the Hull, shielded from the Far Harbor side of the assault. Kasumi was crawling to the other side of the entry, pressing herself to the wall of towering metal siding. One of the dark-skinned synths dropped, shot through the neck, blood arcing in a red spout. “Kasumi,” he called, shouting over the din. Her wide, stunned eyes met his. “Go! Escape now. Your grandfather’s boat is at the dock. If we aren’t behind you, leave without us.”

“I’m not deserting you,” she yelled back, eyes hardening. “There are good people here. I won’t run away!” Crouched, she drew her pipe rifle and took the safety off. He knew that look, that determined set in her jaw. Though scared, she was prepared to make a stand for her people. God, she reminded him of Haylen.

John jammed his elbow into Danse’s side and wiggled free. He jabbed a finger up at the Hull. “Up and over?” he suggested, shouting into Danse’s ear.

Danse then realized where they were standing, at the location where they had fought the monsters that lurked in the fog when first arriving. They had traveled up a set of stairs that led from the dock to the top of the barrier. When the slaughter was over, John and Nick had come down a ladder, a ladder that was on the other side of the wall. John’s call was sound. Up the ladder, around the Hull and down to the dock, avoiding the shootout on the wharf.

He slung Righteous Authority to face front – it wouldn’t have done to walk up rifle-in-hand – and charged it, daring a glance around the entryway. Harbormen were spilling out of every doorway and around every corner, funneling in and out of one of the stores, an army assembling. “Raid my shop! Grab my guns!” Allen was screaming as he fired. “Hunt those synth bastards down!” Smoke was clouding the wharf, making the attack appear unfocused, as if it were out of a dream or a terrible nightmare. A little boy crouched in a corner, hands over his ears. Nick’s body lay nearby, DiMA bowed over it, his hands grasping his brother’s.

Danse pulled his head back into safety as a number of harbormen charged past, funneling through the gate to pursue the escaping synths into the fog. They took long strides to step over the bodies of the zealots dotting the entrance.

A shotgun blast sounded and DiMA’s body went sailing backwards through the proscenium of the gate, wide holes blown into him, the glass tubes attached to his body shattering upon impact with the pavement. He did not get up. Kasumi jumped and screamed, her bravado lost to the wind.

“Kasumi,” Danse called again. “This fight is over. Retreat is the only option.” She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. The sound of gunfire was lessening, as half of Far Harbor had gone to fight the withdrawing synths and those remaining were winding up wounded, dead, or low on ammo. He looked to John, who nodded, raising his warhammer. It lit up, spitting a copious amount of green energy. Danse turned back to her. “ _Now_ , Kasumi. Three, two,…”

In place of _one_ , he darted out into the entry, snapping his rifle up. The barkeep caught sight of him and leveled his shotgun in his direction. Danse fired first. The man’s body jerked as a red-hot energy beam tore into his leg, crippling him, and he fell to the ground, cursing. 

John and Kasumi crept around either side of Danse. He forced Kasumi to keep her back to the wall, taking his eyes off of John to make sure she saw where she was going. She scrambled up the ladder and was disappearing behind the lee of a roof when a bullet tore a chunk out of the wall a second too late, missing her completely. Danse ducked instinctively, pressing into the narrow shelter of a doorframe. He saw Allen loading another round, calling out, fuming, “Look what you’ve brought to this town, synth! Any blood spilled today is on your hands. We were peaceful. We let Acadia live. You and that freak robot had to go and wreck everything,” as he brought his rifle up.

“You forgot about me, asshole,” a voice rasped. “Fuck this island. All of it,” said John, twirling his hammer in a circle with one hand. Green light formed a halo around the head as it swung. He stood shielded in a nook to one side, containing little more than a workbench and an armor frame. “If anybody’s got beef with this place, it’s me, not you. You’re a petty little shit, starting trouble for the sake of being a dick.”

“Shut your ugly fucking fag face, ghoul.”

John’s cheek twitched. He stilled the hammer, jade light fading. Like snapping rubber, his fired his plasma pistol, residing in his forgotten hand. Allen went down, his rifle dropping from his hands to clutch as his gut. The lights in John’s hammer ignited again as he stepped from safety. Flumes of energy arched in the afterimage of the hammer’s path as John buried the head in Allen’s face, crushing it to crimson paste. “Go!” he bellowed at Danse, wrenching the hammer out of the mush.

Danse hoisted himself up the ladder and around the gable, grabbing a fearful Kasumi by the arm and shoving her into a stumbling run. The lighting was paltry as they made their way down to the dock, the dark shapes of ships bobbing against the backdrop of a black night at sea. Danse followed close on Kasumi’s heels. The Nakano boat was only a short jog away. 

Something small lodged itself in Danse’s back, sending pain to flare up his shoulder and knocking him down. He caught his fall by bracing his hands of the wooden slots on the dock, his rifle swinging free by its strap.

Kasumi skidded to a stop. Her eyes widened as she looked down at him and she swung her rifle up. Her head rocked back as her right eye became a scarlet hole, blood spraying out of the back of her head, the droplets shining as they reflected the fog condensers’ glow. The rifle fell from her hands as she crumpled. Danse lurched forward, headless of the wound in his back, catching her as she dropped, cradling her head in his hand. Warm blood and chunks of tissue slid out between his fingers, staining into his pants. He screamed, all rage and agony and injustice, as he settled Kasumi’s body down on the pier. His fingertips sank into the pulp of her ruined skull, feeling shattered bits of bone and the squish of brain matter.   

There was no bulge of a synth component present.

He raised his head to see John further up the dock, forcing Avery to her knees. She looked petrified, dropping her gun as he swung the hammer over her head. “John, stop!” he cried. The ghoul froze, a statue in mid-action, the hammer head hovering over Avery. “There’s nothing here,” said Danse.

John’s head cocked. “What do you mean?”

“She isn’t a synth. _She’s not a synth!_ _There’s no component_!” Danse shouted, grabbing Avery’s attention. The gunfire had ceased. “You’ve killed an innocent human girl.”

She stammered, “I…I didn’t…I thought…”

Several harbormen were being ushered down the steps at the mouth of the dock entrance, hands behind their heads. Chase stood behind them, only visible once the group had gone down the first few steps. Two synths had their guns trained on Longfellow.

A synth victory. No. That was a lie. There was no victory here. Their mission was over. They had failed. He kneeled, painted in the blood of a girl whose only crime was befriending the wrong people. People. Not abominations or monsters. People with more humanity in them then the citizens of Far Harbor had ever contained. Perhaps he was cursed, nearly everyone who followed him left dead in the end. It was a miracle that Haylen and John had survived knowing him.

Something inside of him snapped. He leveled a poisonous look at the collection of both citizens and synths as the bullet hole his back burned. “God damn you all. Look at you. Don’t you see? This contemptible prejudice only served to divide and destroy. Families ripped apart. Senseless murders for no reason other than fear. I look around and all I see is grief.  You disgust me.” He left Kasumi where she lay and stood, rising like a cobra, venomous and perilous. “This island was meant to be home for those who had no safe haven. This is what it’s like to be a synth in the Wastes – being hunted and hated and constantly turned away. This was to be a place that encouraged change for the better. Now, you’ve managed to blow it all to Hell. There is no pride to be found here. No victory.” He narrowed his eyes at Longfellow – how dare he be part of this, he’d thought the man better – before shifting his glare to Avery. “You can have your safe harbor, your lie, your shame. Were I able, I would command this place be struck from existence. You deserve as much. Keep your contempt. Burn in it.”

“We...we were only protecting ourselves,” Avery tried to explain, her gaze swinging between Chase and Danse. “This was all because of Allen, we didn’t –”

“– do a damn thing to stop him,” John noted, finishing her statement. He had lowered the hammer, but it still burned with irradiated energy at his side. He stood as a barrier between Danse and the humans coming from the wharf.

“He didn’t speak for all of us. This…this was all a mistake. I’m the leader. I make the hard calls.”

“Like the decision about the ghouls, Avery? Give it up.” Longfellow asked, voice calm yet poignant amid the cluster of harbormen.

“I…we…” Avery stuttered, too dumbfounded to form sentences. “No. That…that was a unanimous agreement. That wasn’t just me.”

“Those damned monsters,” the barkeep grumbled, fumbling to thrust a stimpak into his leg. “It was us or them! Trappers wanted bodies, and that’s what they got.”

“What are you talking about?” John snapped, his features locked in fury, his posture stiff.

A tall man dressed in a doctor’s coat swallowed. “It was a deal between Far Harbor and the trappers – give them the ghouls and Far Harbor would be left alone. We didn’t tell them. Allen…he led them to the bowling alley and blocked the doors while trappers massacred them all.” He mopped his brow, the story clearly leaving him uneasy. “Guess trappers got a taste for ghouls after that. Stuck to ferals and folks that went wandering alone. Never came back here.”

John looked sickened, leaning on the handle of his weapon, the hammerhead on the ground. “Look at you,” he addressed Avery, mouth turned down and shaking his head. “It wasn’t unanimous. You didn’t want that. There wasn’t some decree, some grand united decision. It was one guy – one guy – that decided it was his role, his calling, to snuff out the population. He clutched the handle ever tighter, knuckles paling. “Don’t know what sits worse. Knowing that it one took one guy or that no one even tried to prevent it.”

He was still, his chest rising in short breaths, the muscles in his bare arms trembling. Like a gun going off, he lurched into movement, pivoting, whirling his hammer to smash the condensers on the dock. Sharps of glass and murky liquid splattered the dock. During John’s tirade, the wind turbines slowed and halted. The fog condensers flickered and went out as the island plunged into darkness, causing the humans to gasp.

Chase’s voice rang, “We’ve reclaimed the power supply to the island. Get in your boats and go. This island is lost to you.” Muttering and remaining tightly clustered, the people of Far Harbor shuffled the rest of the way down the dock. They climbed onto the moored boats, packing themselves in before starting the motors and pulling away, throwing dark looks at the synths that remained on the dock.

Danse sank back down to kneel at Kasumi’s side. He took her hand. It felt cold in the salt air and sea mist. “…Nick?…DiMA?” he heard John ask.

“We’ll take care of ours, Nick Valentine included,” Chase responded. “DiMA…he warned us that this would be the likely outcome. He came here to die. It was his intention that we should witness either the best or worst that humanity would offer us. I share in his regret that the conclusion was not favorable.”

 _Not favorable,_ Danse repeated in his head. His hand brushed over Kasumi’s face, closing her one open eye. His mind drifted for a time, not feeling, not really seeing, just settling into silence.

“Dan…”

_John._

“Is it time?” Danse asked, numbness playing with his senses.

“Yeah. It’s time.” John jammed the wide needle of what had to be a stimpak into Danse’s back.

The surviving synths had left, venturing back into the thickening fog before the island was fully claimed.

Danse slid his arms under Kasumi and lifted her body up. She weighed almost nothing. He carried her onto the boat, less than a dozen feet away. The Nakano boat might as well have been miles away for as close as they came to escape. John accessed the Commonwealth coordinates and the vessel rumbled to life.

Monsters rolled in with the fog. Huge, hump-backed shapes swarmed the marina as they pulled away, picking through the abandoned bodies left behind. Answering roars sounded all over the island, pierced by the high-pitched shrieking of ghouls. As more and more distance was put between them and the island, the heavier the fog became, until the harbor was shrouded in a dense white cloud. As they turned a bend, the harbor was cut off from view, leaving the mass of the island faintly visible. The vessel’s speed picked up, taking them away, letting the darkened island be swallowed by the night. From far enough away, Danse could almost imagine that it had never existed. 


	18. Coming Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 18: [2Cellos – Time from Inception](https://youtu.be/5IMhwLg-L84/)

JOHN

Atlantic Ocean

February 26th, 2288

John was leaning against the railing at the stern of the Nakano’s boat, cupping his hand around a lighter that was proving problematic in the wind. He had already smoked two full packs during the night and didn’t plan on stopping any time soon. At long last, the flame ignited and the tip of the cigarette between his lips glowed a molten red as it caught. 

He had lifted a pack of provisions from one of the shops as the synths had cleared a darkened Far Harbor. Neither he nor Danse had eaten properly over the last few days, but truthfully, they didn’t have the stomach for food. John had been happy enough to slake his appetite with nicotine, thankful that he had included a full carton of smokes to their supplies. An exhausted Danse had slept briefly and fitfully on deck. John hadn’t slept at all. Kasumi’s body rode in the helm, wrapped in a tarp, her presence feeling like a heavy blanket over them. Returning without Nick felt wrong. It seemed…rude, given how this was meant to be his quest, not John’s or Danse’s.

A restless Danse joined him at the rear of the vessel and reached over to pluck the cigarette from John’s mouth. He took his own drag and handed it back. Without looking at each other, they each slid a hand along the railing of the ship, drawing nearer with an agonizing slowness. As their fingers laced tightly, they both raised their heads in silence to watch the rising sun in the distance, the fiery beams turning the sky the faintest hint of orange. Neither could say that the sea looked beautiful, not with rusted and barnacle-ridden wrecks bobbing here and there, but it certainly did seem peaceful. Each time Danse leaned closer to trade puffs on the same cigarette, John breathed in his scent. It was still the same combination of musk and the acerbic smell of metallic residue as it had always been. Silence nipped at the space between them, leaving only the crash of waves to comment. Their hands released. John pulled another cigarette as Danse threw the used filter of the old one into the ocean. “I’ll remain in Goodneighbor,” Danse said, his voice low but hard-edged. “I’m tired of wasting time. I want to be with you.” He took a deep inhalation and when he spoke again, his words were soft. “Did I ruin everything between us? Was it all my fault?”

John slid the cigarette back into its pack and gave a strained smile, shaking his head. “I’m good at talking. Not so much at listening.”

“I don’t appear to excel at either.”

He slid his arms around Danse’s waist and hugged him close. “You’re still pretty. That counts.” Danse closed his massive arms around John’s back. Them, together. For the longest time, that was all John had wanted. But if Danse was going to be part of his life, there were certain things he would have to tell him. His stomach twisted slightly and he withdrew from the embrace. “Dan…I killed someone.”

“You’ve killed plenty of people. We both have.”

John ran his fingers over the cigarette pack in his pocket, biding his time before he had to look Danse in the face. “Yeah, but…At the sub, there was this guy. I think he was a soldier.”

Danse didn’t immediately reply. “…Brotherhood?” he asked after a few moments.

John shrugged. “Dunno. He knew things. Things about me, about what I’d done to myself.” John met Danse’s eyes and he held up his withered hands. “About the drug I took that did _this_ to me. Who would know that?”

Danse’s brows were pinched in a studious expression. The bags under his eyes were smudged with purple. “The Institute, maybe? Vault-Tec? I don’t have the answers, I’m afraid.”

John lowered his hands, shoving them into his pockets. He had been so proud of Danse, to see him come so far and announce his synthness to an entire town without shame. He was one step closer to being truly free from the shackles placed on him by both the Brotherhood and the Institute. But despite Danse’s growth, there were still some truths that John didn’t trust him with. Maybe it had been the island, maybe it had been the fog, but John had been able to do things that just didn’t make sense. He couldn’t imagine Danse finding that he been able to funnel radiation into burning a man from the inside out a comfort. Old habits die hard, and he was vaguely worried that the knowledge of his abilities would prove him too close to the edge, and Danse would be forced to justify killing him as a precaution.

The sun was up and shimmering on the horizon when John finally found the strength to give him an additional piece of information. “Listen. Dan, I…There’s something wrong with me. Like Curie warned…I’m changing. And I don’t know where it’s going and I don’t know how long it’ll take.” He bit into his lip before adding, “And it’s damn scary.”

Danse cupped John’s shoulders in his hands. “I’ll be there for you.”

John had made a dumb decision at the submarine, letting the nuke go off without much forethought. Garrett had been turned feral in a similar explosion and John had hated him for years for being so reckless. Leaving Danse in the same position that Garrett had left him made his chest hurt and his stomach drop. “You know there’s a hell of a chance that I’m about to turn for good. What then?”

It took Danse a moment before he responded. “I’ll handle it,” he promised, voice sounding tighter than normal. “I won’t lose my head.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Danse would ensure that his end would be as swift and just as he could make it. John trusted him to do it, to end his savage existence before anyone was harmed. That race with MacCready to find a cure had been a temporary fix to an eventuality that John would have no escape from. He sank his forehead into Danse’s chest. Danse rubbed John’s bare arms briskly in return, a subtle hint that he was done with this despairing discussion.

It was sunny but raining when their boat pulled up to the Nakano residence **.** Danse carried Kasumi’s draped body out to the boathouse, running a caring hand over it before leaving her behind. The two of them draped a few more tarps over her, obscuring where her blood had seeped through the first shroud.

When they knocked on the front door to the main house, John wished that he was back in his stately coat, presentable and confident instead of gaunt-looking and nervous in leather pants and Danse’s bomber jacket.

“You’re back,” Kenji said when he answered the door. He kept looking behind them. “Where is Kasumi?”

John and Danse looked at each other, trying to figure out which one should talk. Neither crossed the threshold. Instead, they stood in the light rain, beads of water collecting in Danse’s beard.

“Mister Nakano,” Danse began. John was grateful that he had chosen to speak. Surely, he’d given these types of notices before. “I’m afraid I have bad news. Kasumi…she…she didn’t make it.”

From within the parlor room, John heard Rei cry out. Kenji caught a stunned breath and took half a step backwards. Tears sprung to his eyes as his face contorted into wrath. “You were supposed to protect her, bring her back safety!” he yelled. “What happened? _What did you do to my little girl_?”

John saw Danse’s jaw tremble. “She…she was an unexpected casualty. I’m…so very sorry for your loss.”

Kenji landed an open-palmed smack to the doorframe. “After all that nonsense about synths, about her wanting to join them, those monsters got her killed!”

Although John could empathize, he knew that he wasn’t able to fathom the depth of the Nakano’s pain. His limited exposure to Kasumi had left the impression that she was sincere in her affection for Acadia and adamant that her death not cause additional stresses between humans and synths. John gave a short sigh and shook his head. “No synth took a shot at her, Pops. What happened to her…that was all people, real folks caught up in a world too complicated for them to understand.”

“I’ve placed her body in your boathouse,” Danse informed. He seemed to be barely holding himself together. His back was locked in a tight military stance but his expression didn’t match the confidence of his posture. “Her appearance…it may be distressing...”

“Your work is done!” Kenji screamed, tears rolling down the lines around his mouth. He gestured angrily at them. “Both of you, get off of my property!”

They both took a few steps back. Searching for solace to his grief, Danse hand sought John’s. He squeezed Danse’s hand tight, and it seemed exactly what he needed. Danse breathed easier when he said, “Your daughter…she may have been the best of them. It was an honor to know her.” Kenji’s face crumbled into a hateful, pinched stare, his nose wrinkling before he slammed the door closed.

They left the porch and retrieved their packs and weapons from the Nakano boat. The rain was lessening, barely misting now. Danse took John’s hand again as they stepped onto the shoreline to begin the long walk back to Goodneighbor. John balanced a powered down Atom’s Judgement over one shoulder.

“Wait!” someone called, and they turned. Rei came running down the beach. “Was she one of them?” she asked when she was near enough to not shout her words.

“One of who?” asked Danse.

“Kasumi…Was she a synth?”

“No,” Danse answered. “She’s wasn’t.” John could tell that the smile he gave her was false, only there to reassure a mother that her child hadn’t forsaken her. “She was always your daughter.”

Rei jerked swift nods. “And Nick?” she added.

Danse clung tightly to his hand. It hurt. John didn’t stop him. “He was lost as well…He’s with family now.”

“Oh, I…I see.” Rei looked down at the sand for several long moments before bringing her eyes up. The smile she gave was most genuine that the one Danse had given her. “Best of luck to the two of you in the future,” she said.

“You’re wishing _us_ luck?” John frowned and gave her a confused look. “We bring your dead daughter back and you give us well-wishes?”

That smile, bittersweet and accepting, still clung to Rei’s face. “Sometimes…sometimes you have to make the best with what comes your way.” She left them there, going back to her home, a little emptier, a little more somber.

John and Danse each put an arm around the other’s waist as they made their way down the coastline, the surf licking at their boots.

_Luck._ Maybe they’d need it. Maybe they wouldn’t. But they would face it together and, in these trying times, that was the best they could hope for.

**Author's Note:**

> A note on notes: I will always post a link to a thematic song cover that I feel matches the tone of that specific chapter at the very top of the notes, above the name of the character we are following. I believe that listening to this piece of music will heighten my intent - things are funnier, or more intense, or really, really fucking sad - and great care has been taken to get each song selection just right. I will always post the title of the upcoming work as well along with occasional behind-the-scenes info. (But, please, really do listen to the music - it goes hand in hand with the story.)
> 
> I would like to thank my amazing beta,[fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/), for all of her help with this entire series.
> 
> Please leave me comments and kudos below!  
> \-- General Lee


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